Let Love clasp Grief lest both be drown'd
by Harriet Vane
Summary: Olivia goes to a school reunion to reconnect with a part of her life that Fauxlivia never touched. But when her life is threatened, Peter rushes to her aid.
1. Prolog

**Authors Notes and Disclaimer**

This is a completed, 7 chapter story. I am publishing the chapters once-a-week during August and September of 2011. Special thanks to "My Beautiful Ending" who kindly beta read the story for me.

This story takes place between The Firefly and Reciprocity (episodes 310 and 311). I developed the bones of the plot ages and ages ago and wrote the story rather quickly – so I apologize if there are redundancies between what I wrote and what eventually happened in the show. The setting was inspired by Olivia's mention on her days at a boarding school in Safe (episode 110) and Peter's description of Nina and Tina in Amber 31422 (episode 305) - though, of course, that wasn't really Peter, it was Olivia's subconscious.

The title is from the first canton of _In Memoriam A.A.H._ by Alfred Lord Tennyson. The plot borrows liberally from Dorothy Sayers's _Gaudy Night_. Fox owns the characters and, basically, I take no creative credit.

**Prologue **

For what it was worth, _She_ had not wrecked Olivia's life while Olivia was trapped on the other side. Her credit score was still good - no extravagant purchases had been made. The bills had been paid, food had been bought, and a $20 gift card to Justice had been sent to Ella for her birthday, but no more than that. _She_ had even kept the thank-you card from Ella; Olivia found it in a pile of mostly junk mail. That thank you card, however, hurt Olivia far more than paying off a huge credit-card bill would have. Olivia had wanted to give Ella a copy of _The Journey of Natty Gahn_ - a movie Olivia had loved at Ella's age - and a big stuffed husky to go with it. The gift had been planned for months, the movie and the toy were in a bag on the top shelf of Olivia's hall closet, and Olivia had even played with the idea of getting a flight to Chicago so she could deliver it in person. Instead, Ella had received a birthday card that sang, "I tell you want I want" and a $20 gift card that got her a hot pink graphic-tee and a pair of mismatched socks. Ella clearly loved the chance to shop at a trendy tween store, and Rachel probably hadn't thought twice about the gift; the family relationships remained intact. But Olivia knew it wasn't what it should have been. Ella's seventh birthday was just one more thing _She_ had taken away.

In the junk mail pile that contained Ella's thank-you, Olivia found another piece of important mail. It was an invitation to school reunion at St. Agnes's School for Girls, the boarding school she'd attended from seventh to tenth grade. Two months ago, before Olivia's life had been stolen, she too would have thrown it into the trash. But now it looked like a beautiful opportunity. _She_ had never been to St. Agnes's - on this side, certainly, but even on the other side. _She_ had never met those people. She had never seen the woods that surrounded it. She had never laughed or cried in those halls. St. Agnes's was Olivia's, and only Olivia's. Suddenly, the institution that Olivia couldn't wait to leave when she was 16 was the only place she wanted to be.


	2. Calling a Handsome Prince

**Thursday 6:45 p.m.**

"I've never heard of an overnight school reunion," Peter said, leaning against the doorframe as he watched Olivia sort through a pile of official looking papers. She was sitting at the desk in the lab's office, finishing off the last of her paper work before she left for a long weekend in rural New York.

"Well, it was a boarding school," Olivia explained. "I lived with a hundred and thirty other teenagers for five years. We slept and ate and learned and played together. They were like . . ."

"Sisters?" Peter prompted.

"Nooo," she said, hesitatingly, "Not really. More like wicked step-sisters."

"From a fairy tale?" Peter asked, amused. "Does that make you Cinderella?"

"Hardly," Olivia said dryly. "I don't think Cinderella ever had to worry about filling a Discharge of Weapons Report."

"I might have liked the story better if she had," Peter said with a soft chuckle. "But I still don't understand why you're going," he pressed. "Cinderella didn't exactly want to hang out with her wicked stepsisters."

Olivia swallowed, sucked in a deep breath, looked up at him, smiled, and lied. "I had friends. And, I'm really curious how everyone turned out."

Peter stared down at her with his sharp blue eyes - eyes that, at one time, she believed could see through any lie. Now she didn't worry. "I'm not sensing a strong emotional connection here," Peter pointed out.

"It's like a family reunion, I guess," Olivia said. "You don't want to go, but you should go. You have too."

"Ok," Peter said, nodding in an understanding way that made her want to punch him. He had seen through her lie, and she resented that.

Unfortunately, Olivia could not punch him, so instead she changed the subject. "And how will you be spending the weekend?"

"Actually, I don't have plans," Peter said. "Walter wants to see Tron for the seventh time, so I might take him to that."

"Tron, eh?" Olivia asked.

"He loves the original," Peter explained. "He bought a VHS player just so he could watch it over and over again. I must have seen it a million times."

"Well, this new one's supposed to have great effects."

"Yeah, but it's all CGI," Peter said. "After Avatar, a black background with glowing lines doesn't impress me."

"But, wasn't Avatar..." Olivia started, and then she hesitated. She could remember watching that movie on a Saturday afternoon when her boyfriend was out of town and nothing else was on. It was a low-budget sci-fi flop that hadn't contained amazing CGI. The Naviri had been people in blue make up. It was obviously shot in the California red woods. The otherworldly creatures were just models in front of green screens. But, even as she spoke, she realized that she'd seen the movie on the other side.

"Olivia?" Peter asked. He sounded concerned.

"Never mind," she said, with a forced smile. She stood up, quickly collected her papers, and said "Have a good weekend, Peter," before rushing out the door and away from whatever pity, understanding, acceptable, or comfort he would offer her.

She didn't want anything from him.

**Friday 7:18 a.m.**

It was a cold, gray day. With nothing in particular to do all day, and no hope of seeing Olivia, Peter found it very hard to pull himself out of bed when his alarm went off at 6:30. Still, he forced his way through his morning routine, sharing oatmeal with Walter and packing his father's brown bag lunch, because the old man hated having to leave his lab to get something to eat.

"Don't forget the banana," Walter urged.

"Have I ever forgotten the banana?" Peter asked.

"Human being are variable," Walter said, "As are all life forms. If things did not change, happen as they had never happened before, we would be nothing more than strings of amino acids in primordial ooze."

"Well, I haven't evolved enough to forget your banana," Peter said, putting the yellow fruit in the brown paper bag. "Now, are we ready to go?"

"Go where?" Walter asked.

"To the lab," Peter said.

"Oh, Peter, didn't I tell you?" Walter asked. "Nina said I need to go to Massive Dynamic today to review the . . ." he paused for a moment, clearly trying to remember what he was supposed to review, "fourth quarter research and development progress report," he finally stated, annunciating each word carefully. "And something about baguettes."

"Baguettes?" Peter asked. "Do you mean budgets?"

"Oh yes," Walter chuckled. "Budgets. That makes more sense. Though, to be honest, I was rather hoping there would be brie with the baguettes, and maybe some of that European peanut butter that tastes like chocolate."

"So, you're going to New York today?" Peter asked.

"Nina is sending a car for us at eight," Walter said.

"Good," Peter said, trying not to sound too excited about the opportunity he saw blossoming in front of him. "Though, if you don't mind, I think I'll skip this one."

"But, Peter, don't you want to come?" Walter asked, sounding very disappointed. "I'm sure we could get baguettes, even if Nina did, in fact, want to discuss budgets."

"You don't need me," Peter said. "And Boyles asked me to do some research on the first peoples – a textual analysis comparing the phraseology in the book with the blueprints we have."

"That sounds exceedingly dull," Walter said, looking at his son with deep concern. "Surely Astrid is better suited for that task."

Peter smiled at his father's unintentional insight. Astrid, with her degree in cryptology, was better suited for that task - though not simply because it was dull work. However, since Peter was lying about Boyles's request, Astrid's abilities were a moot point.

"I think you'll enjoy the R & D review," Peter said, subtlety shifting the conversation away from his plans for the day. "I'm pretty sure I saw a line item about a 'visual concealment and variable camouflage garment' in the last shareholder's report."

Walter gasped. "An invisibility cloak?"

"You'll have to go and see," Peter said with a warm smile.

**Friday 4:35 p.m.**

Peter sat at Olivia's desk in the federal building and looked from one computer screen to the next.

On the right sat his laptop, on which he'd pulled up Fauxlivia's case report on the radio-induced amnesia from the number stations. On the left was Olivia's desktop, which displayed her case report on the Bay Station subway deaths. He scoured them both, looking for things that were different – and things that were the same. He wanted, needed actually, to know as much about Fauxliva as possible.

He'd spent the morning going through the private notes she'd kept on her laptop during her sojourn in this universe. He'd found patterns that were suggestive, but he couldn't be sure they meant anything without comparing them to Fauxlivia's writing for public consumption. Even then, he didn't want to jump to conclusions – to be sure he saw what he thought he saw, he had to compare Fauxlia's writing with Olivia's writing and see what, if any, differences there were.

He'd been able to burn a copy of Fauxlivia's hard drive on the sly, so he had a broad sample of her writing. The samples he had of Olivia's writing were significantly narrower; a handful of e-mails – most of them short and to-the-point; a birthday card with a sweet message; a letter she'd asked him to read over for her, which was to Rachel's divorce lawyer arguing that Rachel should get full custody of Ella. He needed more, so he packed up his computer and headed to the Federal Building.

Over a year ago, Olivia had told him he was free to use her desk if he needed to. While he wasn't sure that offer still stood, she had never told him otherwise, so he took the liberty. He had his own log-in to the FBI database, with incredibly restricted access to their wealth of information. Still, he was allowed to view all documents related to cases he had worked on, and for his current purpose, that was all he needed.

On the whole, there were not many differences between Olivia and Fauxlivia's writing. Olivia was the better writer, but only slightly. They used the same turns of phrase and both favored short, Hemingway-esq sentences. However, Fauxlivia had a tendency to write incomplete sentences, while Olivia never made that mistake. Also, Olivia's transitions were more robust. Fauxlivia's tended to be jarring. While it gave Peter some little pleasure to see that his Olivia was the better of the two at this basic skill, he had to admit that the similarities were more important than the differences and, on whole; his conclusions about Fauxlivia's notes were probably sound.

Olivia's telephone rang and, without thinking, Peter picked it up.

As soon as the receiver left the cradle, he realized that he had no right to answer her phone, but he also knew he should not just hang up. Hoping that someone had dialed a wrong number, he brought the receiver to his ear and said "Olivia Dunham's desk."

"If she comes, we'll kill her.," a woman's voice with a thick southern accent said. "She got out alive before, but this time we'll get her."

"Who is this?" Peter said, trying to determine if anyone would actually be stupid enough threaten an FBI agent over the phone.

"Just tell Dunham to stay away," the woman insisted. "Cortexiphan can get you killed." The line went dead.

For a second Peter was frozen, unsure if he'd heard what he thought he'd heard. Who, other than Walter and their colleagues at the FBI could possibly have known about Cortexiphan? Who could possibly want to kill Olivia?

With a sickening feeling, Peter realized the answer to the first question was 'lots of people.' And, if the reason for killing Olivia was because she had been dosed with Cortexiphan, the answer to the second question was 'almost as many.'

There had been two Cortexiphan trials, one in Jacksonville, and one in Wooster. While they'd tracked down all the children dosed in Jacksonville, they hadn't even looked for the children from Wooster. But, there were more than just the children. There were the lab assistants, the teachers at the daycare, the children's guardians, and whomever these people might have told. Plus, there were still copies of the ZFT out there to be found by who-knew-what kind of brilliant psychopath. In any event, the threat was far too dangerous to be ignored.

Peter hung up the phone and quickly dialed the FIB's switchboard.

"Federal Bureau of Investigations, internal communications, " the operator said quickly. "How can I help you?"

"This line just received a call," Peter said. "Can you tell me where the call originated from?"

"One moment," The woman said. Peter suffered through 10 seconds of Muzac, before she came back on and said "That call was made from a phone at the St. Agnes's School for Girls in Middleburg, New York. Would you like me to connect you?"

"No," Peter said, hanging up the phone and pulling out his cell phone to call Olivia. She didn't answer. He hung up and tried again, in case she had been reaching for her phone, but couldn't get there in time. After calling four times, he was forced to deduce she would not answer, whether because she was ignoring his calls or because she had her phone off, he didn't know.

He considered texting her, but the message was way too complicated to communicate over text. He could always text "call me" but if she was mad at him, he doubted she would, and if her phone was off, a text was as useless as a call.

Peter stated entering the digits of Boyles's number. If she didn't answer the phone when he called her, they'd have the authority to notify the local police about the credible death threat and . . . and what? Peter wondered, hesitating. And drag her out of the school reunion? Or maybe they'd just interrogate all of her old classmates and teachers, most of whom were innocent. In either event, the weekend would be ruined. Peter didn't really care about ruining a class reunion, but he cared a lot about taking this particular class reunion away from Olivia. It was obvious that she wanted to get away from everything that had been touched by Fauxlivia. Peter knew that none of the people at this reunion would have had any interaction with Fauxlivia. Furthermore, he suspected that the time at St. Agnes's was something his Olivia did not share with her doppelganger. Olivia was going, not to a class reunion, but to connect with a part of herself that was hers, and hers alone. She needed that connection, and bringing in outsiders would ruin it for her.

Still, it was a credible threat. At the very least, Olivia had to be warned. He quickly called Nina Sharp's number at Massive Dynamic. Not surprisingly, he was channeled to voice mail. But, unlike Walter, Nina would check her messages.

"This is Peter Bishop," he said as he quickly packed up his laptop and logged off Olivia's computer. "Tell my father that I'm going to be joining Olivia at her class reunion, so I won't be home tonight. Remind him that everyone's phone number is on the refrigerator, there are TV dinners in the freezer, and tomorrow is Saturday, so he can watch cartoons in the morning. He can call my cell if he absolutely has to."

Peter hung up the phone, sure that Nina would take care of his father, probably take him out to eat on the company dime and maybe even set him up in a nice hotel. With Walter taken care of, Peter was free to go save Olivia.

To be continued . . .


	3. Queen's Gambit

**Friday 6:15 p.m.**

"So, Liv, don't you have a date?" Amanda Kirkland asked in her nasal Brooklyn accent. Amanda had not changed a bit since she was fourteen. She was still wearing the most stylish and revealing cloths. She still had the body to pull it off. And she still had a way of making every other girl in the room feel inadequate because they did not posses those qualities.

"Ah, he couldn't make it," Olivia said coolly. She'd spent a long time thinking about how she was going to answer this particular question. Saying that she had no boyfriend would generate looks of pity, offers to be set up with various men, and, most likely, a rumor that she was a lesbian. "Had to work."

"Bobby is the same way," Jenien Lovitz said with exaggerated empathy. Jenien had always been Amanda's best friend and shadow. After graduating from St. Agnes's, they'd both gone to City College in New York and, apparently, married two frat boys who were best friends. From their discussion earlier, Olivia has surmised that Amanda's family had bought a yacht, while Jenien's family had a place in the Hamptons, so the two families did not have to sacrifice any luxury. "He's in securities, you know, and it's like the markets never close. On the fourth of July we were supposed to go sailing and I said to him, 'Bobby, the kids want to go sailing, Amanda and Kevin are waiting for us!' and he said 'I'm working' and I said 'It's the f-ing fourth' ('cause I don't swear anymore, because of the kids) but I nearly said it, you know, the real word, and I said 'the f-ing markets are closed!' and he said 'not in China!' Oh. Em. Gee! I mean, really, OMG! Men!"

Amanda had laughed throughout the story. Carroll Wildman, who'd been part of their clutch of conversation for several minutes, but had not gotten a word in edgewise, also seemed to find the story, or perhaps the delivery, humorous. Olivia, who had herself worked through the fourth-of-July for the past five years, managed to deliver a polite chuckle.

So far, the night had been as socially painful as she'd expected, but with none of the sentimental sweetness and softening of time, which she'd also expected. None of her old classmates had become less rich, privileged, or annoying. Even the campus itself had disappointed her. The main building had gone through a major renovation; all the old dorm rooms were now modern classrooms. The decrepit home ec./humanities building from the 50s had been torn down, and a new dormitory had been added to the campus. The tree she used to climb and study in its branches was gone, sacrificed for a tennis court. The classrooms where she'd excelled in German and math had been converted into administrative offices. The always-cold, crowded bedroom that she'd shared with three other girls throughout her stay was now a computer lab. It seemed like the only thing that had not changed was the main hall, where they were now mingling with cocktails and hors d'oeuvres, and the old chapel, where, every week, she'd been forced to sit through a Mass she could not participate in. She'd heard they'd renovated the inside, changing the high alter to a low alter and moving the administrative offices out of the second floor to create a display space for the school's valuable collection of colonial religious embroidery. But Olivia had already decided she would not go into the chapel – or anywhere near the bell tower and its one terrible memory.

"The thing is," Amanda said, once they were all done laughing at whatever had been funny in Jenien's story. "Kevin is so the opposite. I'm like, 'Honey I thought you had a meeting today' and he's like 'A golf meeting!'"

Jenien laughed at this as heartily as Amanda had laughed at her story. Carroll seemed slightly less amused, but still laughed. Olivia, much to her relief, saw a way out.

"Oh, look," she said. "It's Frau Hoerr. If you'll excuse me."

Without bothering with any further pleasantries, and not waiting to see if they were offered, she broke away from the group and walked towards her old German teacher.

While Olivia had done well in primary school, she'd never excelled. Her natural intelligence and her excellent memory had made most grade school activities too simple. She knew her spelling words the first day, glancing at her times tables once was enough for her to pass the test. Even after she'd transferred to St. Agnes's, the academics hadn't challenged her. What she couldn't get by natural ability didn't seem worth getting. Was a B+ really that much worse than an A? Her mother didn't seem to think so. The teachers didn't seem to think so. Well, most of the teachers. Frau Hoerr, whose German class Olivia entered in ninth grade, was different.

Naturally, Olivia aced the vocabulary tests. It was rote memorization, and she was good at that. But when it came to conjugation, creating sentences, and expressing ideas, she was less apt. When she got a C in German on her mid-term report card, her self-confidence came crashing down. The one thing she'd felt sure of in the nasty, frightening world of an all girls' boarding school was her ability to get good grades. "It's not fair," she's half sobbed, half screamed at Frau Hoerr. "On the mid-term, every one of the words was spelled right. I labeled the map perfectly. I made a few mistakes conjugating and you give me a C?"

"I gave you a C because you think in English," Frau Hoerr said simply. "If you tried to think in Deutch, you would have gotten an A-."

"How do you know how I was thinking?" Olivia demanded.

"Your sentences are always written with English grammar and sentence structure," Frau Hoerr said. "And, more importantly, with an American point of view."

"So?" Olivia said. "I'm an American. I'm proud of it!"

"Which is as it should be," Frau Hoerr said. "But, in my class, I expect students to try to understand the material, not just repeat it. If I thought you understood anything about being German, about speaking and hearing German, you would get a better grade. But, you don't try. I will not reward someone who does not try.

Olivia starred at her, "You can't change how you think."

Frau Hoerr stared back. "Try really thinking," she advised. "See what changes."

"I hope it's my grade," Olivia muttered.

"So do I," Frau Hoerr had said.

Olivia did as she was told, and actually thought about German. She thought about how the words sounded, how the letters looked together, how food tasted, how the landscape looked, how it would feel to wear a dirndl, and how thousands of years of history had colored that country. She started reading the German picture books Frau Hoerr had in her classroom, and soon moved up to the comic books. While Olivia could see that America and Germany had much in common, she was amazed to discover that life there was different. She was somewhat surprised that people who looked very much like her, clear skin, blue eyes, blond hair, could be so very different. The more she learned, the more she wanted to learn. By the end of the first semester, she had pulled the C up to a B+. By the end of term, she was at the head of the class.

While studying German had been deeply enjoyable, and being fluent in the language had certainly aided her career, Olivia understood that what Frau Hoerr had really taught her was to expand her perspective. In that German class, Olivia had learned that the world can be vastly different from what you think it is. If you accept things at face value, if you do not dig a little deeper, look a little closer, you will never understand the world. Her life was defined by that lesson, and she felt she had to express her gratitude to the woman who'd taught it to her.

"Frau Hoerr," Olivia said, breaking into a group of teachers. "Excuse me, but I . . ."

The German teacher's face lit up as soon as she saw her former pupil. Olivia didn't get a chance to explain anything; the older woman stepped across the circle and embraced Olivia with a warmth that Olivia was unaccustomed too.

"Miss Dunham!" Frau Hoerr said. "My prize student! I had not dared hope you would come. It is so very good to see you!"

"It's good to see you too, Frau," Olivia said, returning the hug with genuine affection. "I hope you got my post cards."

"Beautiful, yes," the teacher said, pulling way so she could look at her student. "I show them to every one of my classes. Study hard, I say, and you too can have an exciting career full of travel."

Olivia laughed warmly at the accurate, but deeply misleading, description of her job. "I hope they listen to you," she said. "I couldn't have done any of the things I did if I hadn't listened to your advice."

"Oh, I doubt that," Frau Heorr said, with her typical German modesty. "But, you must tell me all about your life," she continued, hooking her arm in Olivia's and walking her no-longer-young student away from the group of teachers and over to a table where they could sit. "You know I live for my students - now that you're old enough I can confess I live through them too. Tell me about the FBI and being young and single in a big town. Humor me."

"Ok, well . . ." Olivia started, happy to have the opportunity to please her teacher, but unsure what she could possibly divulge.

"Ah, ah, ah," Frau Hoerr interjected. "Auf Deutsch."

Olivia's smile got bigger. This was well worth the annoyance of her classmates and the pain of seeing the bell tower. This was why she'd come.

**Friday 8:40 p.m.**

"You sure?" Peter asked the very-young women manning the check-in table. "Queen. Q-u-e-e-n."

"I know, sir," she said, flipping through the box of nametags in front of her. "But it's not here. Not under Peter. Not under Queen."

"Could you just go in and get Olivia for me?" Peter said, managing to sound casually annoyed. "I know she'd clear this up."

"I don't know who Olivia is," the girl said. She seemed totally overwhelmed by the situation. Peter guessed that she was one of the students, perhaps working over break to get reduced tuition. He further guessed that she was not one of the brighter students.

"Dunham," Peter supplied quickly. "Olivia Dunham."

"I mean, I don't know her," the girl clarified. "A lot of people came through all at once and . . ."

"Who did you say you were looking for?" asked an older woman, who happened to be walking past the table at the time. She was dressed expensively, if not well, in a long modest shift dress and a shapeless jacket. Her salt and pepper hair was pulled back in a bun and her think lips were accented with too-red lipstick. Peter pegged her as one of the teachers.

"Olivia Dunham," the girl said. "He says he's her date, but I don't have his name."

The teacher looked at Peter, clearly surprised, "Her date?"

"I'm sorry I'm late," he said. "I had to take the TGV from Brussels to Paris just so I could catch the Red-eye - then after all that I get lost in the woods about 20 minutes south of here. Can you believe it?"

The teacher continued to look at Peter quizzically, but still, she smiled. "Of course. I believe Miss. Dunham is at table nine, with the Holds, McMillans, and Miss Shutlz. I'll show you where they are."

"Thank you," Peter said, as she turned and opened the door for the hall. "Oh, please, allow me," he said, as he took the door, holding it open for the teacher.

Peter followed her into the hall, trying to take in all the nuances of the architecture, decorations, and the people who filled it. It was good-sized rectangular room with high ceilings and a raised dais in the front. Clearly, it was meant to copy the dining rooms in English schools, where the teachers ate in the front, and the students sat in rows laid out before them. {MBE- I'm pretty sure you meant 'sat' so I fixed it.} The chandeliers were new and filled the hall with a warm glow, though they were styled as if they were old candelabras. The wood floor was old, scuffed, and worn smooth. The back half of the room was empty except for a few young girls (more students, Peter assumed) acting as the serving staff. It was set up with a bar, hors d'œuvre buffet, and sprinkled with cocktail tables. Peter assumed that these had been set up for the reunion. In the front of the room, the traditional long straight tables had been replaced with large round ones that accommodated six adults comfortably. Each table was set formally, with what looked like very good china bearing the school seal.

The woman leading Peter wove her way through the tables quickly, and Peter had to be spry to keep up with her. The students waiting tables parted in front of her but did not extend the same courtesy to him.

Eventually, they reached the table where Olivia sat. Five other people surrounded her, two men and thee women, who were all talking excitedly, even Olivia. For a split second, Peter regretted barging into Olivia's privet life - forcing the wired and scary into the warm and nostalgic. But he couldn't forget the sound of desperation in that voice. A voice that probably belonged to someone in the room.

"Miss Dunham," the teacher said crisply, but not nearly loud enough to be heard over the din in the room. Still, she was heard by all the women at the table, and all conversation stopped.

"Mrs. Colbert," Olivia said nervously. Peter couldn't help but be amused that a woman who could stare down a mass murderer would be unnerved by a former professor.

"You're date seems to have arrived," Mrs. Colbert said, sounding extremely bewildered by that fact. "Why isn't there a place for him at the table?"

"There must be some mistake," Olivia said, "I didn't . . ."

"I'm sorry Liv," Peter said, stepping forward and pulling everyone's attention away from Mrs. Colbert. Next to this former teacher he had been, apparently, invisible. "I know I said I couldn't come, but when Gudshtine canceled our meeting in Vienna I realized I could make it. I tried to call, but you know how hard it is to get a single in Normandy."

"Peter," was all Olivia could think to say - or, considering the confused but shrewd look in her eye, all she felt safe saying.

"I'm sorry, everyone," Peter said to the table at large, "I didn't mean to interrupt your dinner."

"I'm sure we could make room," one of the men said, scooting a little closer to the woman next to him. "Hon, who would we talk to to get another place setting?"

"Gosh, I don't know," the woman replied. "I think Mrs. Hurst is the big organizing guru. But I'm pretty sure she's in the kitchen."

"Yeah," Olivia said briskly, pushing herself away from the table. "I think I saw her in there. Peter and I will go ask her if he can join us."

There was a general chorus of consensus to this plan, and as Olivia walked to the side of the room where there were large double doors leading to the kitchen. Peter hastened to follow her.

"What are you doing here?" she hissed under her breath as soon as they'd gotten beyond the bustle of the tables. "And why did you tell people you were my boyfriend?"

"I'm sorry," Peter said in an equally low voice. "I understand that upsets you, but I didn't think they'd let me in otherwise."

"I didn't want them to let you in," Olivia insisted.

Peter ignored her, "You got a creepy phone call," he said. "It came from here, inside the school. It said 'we are going to kill her.'"

"What do you mean I got a phone call?" Olivia asked.

"At your desk," Peter explained. "I was working at your desk and . . ."

"And you answered my phone?"

"I'm sorry," Peter said. "I wasn't thinking. But, I think, it's probably a good thing that I did."

"I can take care of myself," she told him coolly. It was obvious by the dark look in her eyes that she was more angry at him for intruding into her life than she was worried about a death threat. "I certainly don't need you to protect me."

"It mentioned Cortexiphan," Peter said, somehow making his voice even lower. "And I didn't come to protect you, I came here to warn you."

Olivia stared at him. He could see conflicting thoughts and emotions battling it out behind her eyes. The gravity of the situation was not lost on her; still she loathed the intrusion of her dangerous and messy current life into the safety and order of her past.

"The message said someone here tried to kill you once," Peter continued. "It said they'd try again."

"No one ever tried to kill me," Olivia said.

"To be fair, Olivia, you were a kid," Peter said. "You might not have known about it."

"I think I'd know if someone tried to kill me," she insisted.

"Not if the adults didn't tell you," Peter said. "Kids, even smart kids, don't know how to interpret a lot of what adults do. You assume it's normal. You assume it's right. I know that if I was running a boarding school and I found out someone was trying to kill one of my students, I'd keep it hushed up. I certainly wouldn't want the student to know she was in danger."

Olivia broke eye contact, glancing behind Peter at the throng of her fellow students and former teachers. She didn't look scared, but she did look very, very concerned.

"Did you contact Boyles?" she asked.

"I thought about it," Peter said. "But he would have called in the police, if not the FBI, and everybody here would have known that something crazy is going on in your life. I didn't want to put you through that."

Something in her eyes changed. She was still mad at him, not just for this, but for everything he'd done in the past two months - perhaps she always would be. Still, her expression softened. She may have been disgusted by him, but she was grateful for this gesture.

"Besides," he said, speaking earnestly, but still trying to flatter. "I know you can take care of yourself."

"All right, thank you," she said crisply. "But, why did you lie about your name and where you came from?"

"I've found that, when I don't know what I'm getting into, it's safer to be someone else," Peter told her honestly, adding, with a touch of humor, "And, I wanted you to show-up these prep-school girls."

"You did?"

"No one would be impressed with a MIT drop-out," Peter said. "I can leave after dinner - say I have a meeting in L.A., or something."

Olivia took a deep breath and looked, once again, at all the people in the dining room behind him. "And who are you supposed to be?" she asked, ignoring his offer to leave.

"Peter Queen," Peter said, trying not to smile, knowing that he hadn't won the right to stay with her and watch her back just yet. He handed her a business card bearing that moniker. "Merchant in fine wine and spirits."

"What will you do if someone wants to buy something?" she asked, handing the card back to him.

"Tell them to call the office during business hours," Peter said. "Queen's Spirits is a real company, headed by a real Peter Queen. I buy a bottle of bourbon off him every Christmas. It's my way of thanking him for the use of his name."

Olivia nodded. She almost looked amused, though her mind was still focused on the problem at hand. "Nice. Someone's trying to kill me, and I have a liquor salesman watching my back."

"So," Peter said hopefully, "you're not going to send me back to Boston, then?"

She looked up at him, seemed to brace herself for what she was about to say, and said, "No. I'll need help to figure out what's going on here. If someone is really trying to kill me, they're sure to go underground the second a badge shows up."

"But a wine merchant won't raise any eyebrows," Peter said, taking a deep berth and trying not to smile at his tiny triumph.

"Exactly," Olivia said dryly. "But, you have to follow my lead."

"You're the boss," Peter agreed.

"And just because you are pretending to be my date, does not mean we have anything more than a professional relationship."

"You didn't have to tell me that," Peter said.

"But I am telling you," she said, looking him in the eyes. She hadn't done that since she'd told him she didn't want to be with him - and the significance was not lost on Peter. He met her gaze, eager to comply with whatever she said next. "I hate that you're here," Olivia said frankly, "Because, right now, where you go, she goes. And this was the one place in the world I thought I could get away from her."

"Olivia I'm . . ." Peter started, but she wouldn't let him get to the 'so sorry.'

"Still," she pressed. "You are the only person in the world I can trust to be discreet, and alert, and frankly, brave for me. I wish I could go to someone else but . . ."

"I won't let you down," Peter promised.

"I know you won't," Olivia said. Her anger had ebbed and she came across as simply stoic, but Peter knew her better than that. He could see behind her determination to a woman whose heart was breaking - possibly without hope of repair. Worse still, he could see that he was the one breaking it.

**To be continued . . . .**


	4. What really happend?

**Friday 10:10 p.m.**

"At least we have a nice view," Peter said as he survived their accommodations for the night. The school had housed the women and their guests in the new dormitory. Each room had a large picture window, flanked on either side by two desks with surge protectors and intranet jacks set into the wood. Two comfortable office chairs on wheals went with the desks, and two twin beds were pushed against either side of the wall. On the right side of the room, there was a door to a bathroom, on the left, a walk in closet. It was exactly like a very nice college dorm, and dramatically unlike the small room full of beds and wardrobes that Olivia had shared with three other girls. She had been so surprised by the luxury that she had barely noticed the window.

"We're facing north, right?" Olivia said, not looking out the window. "Towards the chapel?"

"I guess so," Peter said, still admiring the view, "if that's the building with the bell tower."

"Yes," Olivia said as she hung her garment bag off a hook on the back of the bathroom door. "I don't suppose you brought a tux with you."

"I didn't bring anything I could not buy at Walgreens," Peter said, nodding towards his bed, which had two plastic bags on it, one filled with extremely cheap cloths, the other with travel toiletries. "I didn't want to take the time to go home and pack."

Olivia smiled, "You'll need one for tomorrow night. We're having a formal."

"A formal?" Peter laughed. "This really is like high-school."

"I'm pretty sure there are a couple of places to rent one in Middleburg."

"Hmm, I'm not a big fan of rented tuxes," Peter said dryly. "You think we could smoke out your murderer before the dance?"

"I'll try to look vulnerable at lunch," Olivia assured him.

"Good, you do that," Peter replied good-naturedly. "By the way, what is the plan for tomorrow?"

"I'm going out to breakfast with my old German teacher," Olivia started.

"Do you really think that's a good idea?" Peter asked. "What if she's your killer?"

"She's not," Olivia said flatly - ending all possible discussion. "But that should give you a chance to snoop around."

"Sounds fun," Peter said. "Is there anything in particular I should be snooping for?"

"You're the one that heard the threat, not me," Olivia said. "What should we be looking for?"

"Well, it was a woman with a southern accent," Peter said. "I think I'd be able to recognize the voice if I heard it again."

"Why didn't you tell me that sooner?" Olivia asked.

"I didn't really get a chance," Peter said. "Do you know who it is?"

"I know it isn't anyone here," Olivia said. "No one has a southern accent."

"No one?" Peter said, confused.

"Nope."

"Well, maybe it's a teacher or staff member - someone who came after you left."

"Then how would they know about the alleged first murder attempt?" Olivia said. "Could it have been faked?"

"Maybe," Peter said, trying hard to remember everything about the five-second phone call. "If so, it was a good fake."

"Is there anything else?" Olivia asked hopefully.

Peter shook his head. "I answered the phone and a woman said 'If she comes, we'll kill her. She escaped before, but this time we'll get her,' or something like that. When asked who was speaking, she said 'Tell Dunham to stay away. Cortexiphan can get you killed.' and then she hung up."

Olivia stared at him with a puzzled and concerned expression, "What I don't understand is how anyone at St. Agnes's could possibly know about Cortexiphan."

"I don't know," Peter said. "I occurred to me that, maybe someone got a hold of a copy of the ZFT and put one-and-one together."

"That crazy manifesto Mr. Jones followed?" Olivia asked.

"That crazy manifesto also happens to be disturbingly accurate," Peter said. "They did drug trials in Ohio at the same time they were doing them in Florida. Maybe someone from those trials . . ."

"Including twin trials," Olivia said softly, as she turned her head to look out the window at the bell tower for the first time.

"Yeah," Peter said, following her gaze even though he knew he couldn't see what she saw. "What is it?"

"I just . . . I have an idea."

"Great," Peter said, "What is it?"

"It's not an idea I like," Olivia said, turning back to Peter. "Let's eliminate some other possibilities before we go down that road."

"Can't you at least tell me what it is?" Peter asked. "If I'm going to be snooping at breakfast . . ."

"You said you'd do what I told you," Olivia reminded him. "I told you we're not going to pursue it, yet."

"Ok," Peter said, knowing how useless it was to argue with Olivia when she'd made up her mind - in part, because she was always right. "Well, maybe it would help if you showed me around the grounds - gave me some background and context."

Olivia hesitated.

"You don't have to if you don't want to," Peter said quickly. "I know a bunch of people are having an after party in the rec room downstairs, I could go down and there and try to get a feel for . . ."

"No," Olivia said, shaking her head and forcing a smile. "I'll give you the tour."

**Friday 10:45 p.m.**

Peter hunched in his wool pea coat against the bitter December air. Olivia, in what looked like a new, white ski coat, didn't seem bothered by the cold. "That used to be the dormitory," she said, pointing to one old looking building. "It's classrooms now. And that used to be a commons, there was a tree where I would sit and study," she said, pointing to a snow-covered tennis court. "But, the hall is the same. And the chapel," she said, nodding towards the beautiful old building with the tall bell tower. "Which is almost ironic. It's the one thing I would have been glad to see changed."

"Why is that?" Peter asked.

"Follow me," Olivia said, ignoring his question as she headed toward the old building that used to be a dormitory. There had been a light snowfall earlier in the week, just enough to make the grass crunch as they walked over it and leave distinctive tracks. Peter followed her as she passed between buildings, and into the forest beyond. He wanted to ask her if it was a good idea to go into the thick old growth on such a cold night, especially as no one would miss them for hours, possibly days. But Olivia seemed determined to find something, and he was determined to follow her. After walking for what seemed like ages, though it was probably less than five minutes, they came to a clearing with a small shed to the right, butting up against the woods.

"Where are we?" He asked.

"The pond," Olivia said. There was a smile in her voice. "Twenty years ago, I would have been ice skating out here with Tina."

"Who's Tina?" Peter asked. "Is she here this weekend?"

"No," Olivia said. "Come on."

She walked over to the small house, opened the door, and switched on a light. Peter squinted from sudden illumination of one iridescent bulb.

"A boat house," Peter observed as he walked into the little structure's one and only room. At least it was a nice cozy room, with ten old wooden chairs hanging from hooks on the left and right wall. A canoe hung on the opposite wall above a door which, Peter guessed, lead out to pier. On one side of the door, ores were leaned against a wall, on the other there was a wooden crate holding faded orange life jackets. In the middle of the room was a small, black, Franklin stove, which Olivia had opened.

"Hand me some wood, would you?" She asked. "And close the door."

Peter stepped fully into the boathouse and closed the door behind him. He discovered a box of logs at his feet, as well as a pile of newspapers and an old tin coffee can filled with matchbooks.

"I take it this is quite the hangout," Peter said as he walked two logs, a section of newspaper, and a matchbook over to the stove.

"For some," Olivia said. It was warmer in the boathouse, but he could still see her breath. "St. Agnes's is full of spots like this, little places to make your own."

"And you chose the boat house?" Peter asked.

"Tina did," Olivia said. "She loved the water. We'd swim in the summer, canoe in the spring and fall, and ice skate all winter.

Peter smiled, "Too bad we didn't bring skates."

Olivia didn't smile. Instead she fixed her gaze on a dark window in the door that lead to the pier. "If we're really going to find out who wants to kill me, you should probably know everything."

"Only as much as I need to," Peter told her. It wasn't that he didn't want to know everything; rather, he didn't want to force her to tell secrets she'd rather keep.

"To be honest, I'm not sure how to start," Olivia said. "I brought you here because I thought it would be easier to talk in a place where I had so many good memories. But, now that we're here . . ."

Peter didn't force her to vocalize her hesitation, instead, he suggested, "How about explaining how a girl with a working-class, single, agnostic mother ends up at an expensive Anglican boarding school?"

"On full scholarship," Olivia said. "After I . . . after my step-father left, I couldn't go to the local school anymore. No one would talk to me, unless it was to call me a murderer. I was only eleven, and coming home every day just devastated. I hadn't had a lot of friends to begin with, but after that, no one was nice to me.

"If it had just been the kids, I think my mother would have made me deal with it. After all, kids grow and change. But the parents weren't happy to have me in school either. There was a petition, signed by every family in my grade school, asking that I be 'dismissed'."

"I guess it takes a village to destroy a child," Peter commented.

"Thankfully, one of the guidance consolers at Taft Elementary knew the dean here. She pulled some strings, and I was enrolled before the midterm break."

"And how'd that go?"

"Great, actually," Olivia said. "I was never popular, but I wasn't a pariah. I might have gotten teased for being poor, but after being so totally rejected, that sort of thing didn't matter."

"Make many friends?" Peter asked.

"Some," Olivia said.

"Tina," Peter prompted.

"She and her sister Nina were my roommates, along with another girl, Katie."

"Seriously?" Peter asked with a scoff. "Nina and Tina?"

"Ninette and Christina Kelly," Olivia explained. "But they were twins, so . . ."

"So Nina and Tina," Peter said, nodding. "Go on."

"Nina and Katie were best friends, and Tina and I were best friends. It's funny, even though Nina and Tina looked identical, they didn't act or think in the same way. Nina was popular, athletic, but not particularly bright. Tina was like me, quietly smart but a misfit. It was like we thought the same way - like our brains worked differently then everyone else's. We had this secrete joke that I was really Tina's twin, and that the doctors had gotten confused because Nina and Tina looked so similar."

"Are you still friends?" Peter asked.

"No," Olivia said softly. "Tina committed suicide, jumped off the bell tower, our sophomore year."

"Oh, God, Olivia," Peter said empathetically. "I'm so sorry."

"I never understood why," Olivia continued. She sounded as troubled as sad, as if the mystery of the suicide bothered her as much as the death itself. "I didn't know she was depressed. She must have been. Mrs. Colbert, the writing teacher, had lots of poems and stuff she'd written that mentioned suicide - but she never told me, or Nina, for that matter. I don't know how neither of us could have known."

"Maybe she didn't want to trouble you with her pain," Peter supplied.

"Maybe," Olivia acknowledged. "I wish she had. What if we'd have been able to help her?

"But," Olivia continued after a deep breath, "After that I went back to public schools. We'd moved to New York by then and Rachel was entering high school, so my mom thought it was time we were all together again. Maybe she was spooked by Tina's suicide, and I know she didn't like how Rachel was acting, fourteen going on twenty-four. So I left."

"And this is the first time you've come back?" Peter asked.

"Yeah," Olivia said.

"And you never thought you were in danger here?" Peter asked.

"No," Olivia said, shaking her head sadly. "In fact, for a couple of years, this school was the only place I felt safe."

**Saturday 3:46 a.m.**

Olivia screamed.

In a heartbeat, Peter was awake and on his feet, ready to viciously attack anyone who was hurting Olivia. But, even though the room they shared was tiny, he couldn't find the attacker in the murky darkness

"Please, don't," Olivia sobbed loudly. "Please."

Peter's groggy mind quickly cleared and he realized that she was not pleading with anyone in this room.

"Olivia," he said gently but loudly, as he sat down on her bed. "Wake up, it's a nightmare."

"Please, please," Olivia continued to sob. "You don't have to do this. I helped you. I can help you."

"Olivia, wake up!" Peter said, more forcefully, grabbing her shoulders and shaking her. "You're dreaming. It's not real."

At first, Olivia struggled against Peter's grip, but he did not let go. The struggle, more than his words, seemed to rouse her. She opened her eyes and, for a moment, stared at Peter in terror.

"A dream," she gasped. She was still breathing heavy. Sweat and tears shone on her face, reflecting the dim moonlight coming in through the window.

"A nightmare," Peter assured her. "It wasn't real."

"It was, though," Olivia said, her voice shaking even as she pushed herself up out of his grasp, so she was sitting. "They were going to cut out my brain."

"Just a nightmare," Peter assured her.

"No, Peter," Olivia said. "It happened, on the other side. I've been dreaming about it ever since I got back."

Peter stared at her, in horror, desperately trying to think of something to say to comfort her. But nothing in his vast and bizarre experiences seemed to fit.

"I was awake," she continued, apparently trying to exorcise the demons by describing them. "They drugged me, so I was paralyzed and numb, but I heard the saw they were going to use to cut open my skull."

"God," Peter muttered. "That's sick."

"I wonder how long I could have kept consciousness," Olivia said. She sounded more like herself, almost analytical, but even in the dim light, Peter could tell she was still crying. "I've wanted to ask Walter but I just . . . I deal with it every night, I don't want to face it in the day."

Peter gently put his hand on her shoulder. "I'll ask him, if you like."

"I'm a little afraid of the answer," Olivia said. "Their technology was so amazing over there, what if it hadn't killed me? What if they'd been able to keep my brain alive without my body?"

"That'll give you nightmares," Peter commented empathetically.

"I keep wondering if we, in our universe, could ever do that - if we could ever do anything like that. If we thought the way they thought - if we had that us-or-them mindset - would we saw open a prisoner's skull while she was still alive? I want to say 'No' and pretend that we're better than them, but the truth is we're not. I met people over there, selfless, wonderful people who helped me at the risk of their own lives and I have to conclude that they are just as good as we are . . . so we must be just as bad as them."

"No," Peter said solidly. "Maybe that's true en masse. Maybe our universe is just as cruel as theirs. But our Walter, my father, is not like their Walter. And you are not like their Olivia."

"That's not true," Olivia said, turning to look at him for the first time. Her eyes were still red and moist from crying, but the expression in them was hard and accusatory. "You didn't know."

The words fell heavily on Peter's hearing. Though the statement had been vague, she didn't need to explain it.

"You're right," Peter said, not willing to meet her gaze, even through the dark shadows. "I should've known - I should have. And looking back, there were a hundred clues that I dismissed because I was happy, and I didn't want to mess it up."

"She made you happy," Olivia said. Her voice was both deeply hurt and deeply angry.

"No," Peter said. "I was happy because I thought I was with you."

"But you were with her," Olivia said.

"But I thought I was with you," Peter insisted. "I've given this an awful lot of thought -and I'm not trying to make excuses, but I had to know, for myself, how she fooled me. And the more I look back at it, the more frightened I become, because it seems pretty obvious that I fooled myself. The only reason I didn't question is because I didn't want to."

"You were happy," Olivia said. "Being with her . . ."

"Thinking I was with you," Peter said. "And when she was happy, I thought it was because I made you happy. I didn't fall in love with her -I fell in love with you. I fell in love with a woman who dug me out of Bagdad and forced me to confront my past. I fell in love with a woman who led me into a world where I stopped using people and started helping them. I fell in love with a woman who pursued the truth about herself, and about me, no matter how much that truth hurt. I fell in love with you, Olivia, because you showed me how I could be a better man than my father. You gave me the one thing I spent my life searching for. How could I love anyone else, even if she did look and sound just like you?"

"She laughed at your jokes," Olivia said.

"Probably as a screen because she didn't understand the references to Scrooge McDuck and George Bush," Peter replied. "I fell in love with someone who was amazing. When I thought you loved me back, I didn't want to mess it up."

"You had sex. You stopped thinking," Olivia said, accusatorily, honestly.

"Like I said," Peter reminded her. "I'm not trying to make excuses."

There was a long bout of silence. Peter would have given anything to know what Olivia was thinking, but she gave him no clues.

"You wouldn't seduce someone for information," Peter said. "You wouldn't kill innocent people to cover your tracks. You are not like her. You are better, in every way."

Again, Peter would have loved to know what Olivia was thinking about his heartfelt confession, but she didn't let him in. Instead, after another long silence, she said, "You know you shimmer, right?"

"I shimmer?" Peter asked, confused.

"Like the toys from Jacksonville, like the building that was pulled to the other side," Olivia continued. "I can't look at you and not see it. I can't look at you and know that you two are from the same place."

"Olivia, I . . ." Peter started.

"I don't hate you," she assured him. "We're both victims, I know. But . . . I can't find my way to loving you either."

"I understand how you feel," Peter said, not to express empathy, but to assure him of his comprehension. "But you didn't have to tell me that."

"I don't want to hurt you," she started.

"I know that too."

"But I am sick and tired of being hurt."

There was another long silence.

"What do you want?" Peter finally asked.

He expected her to tell him to leave: the room, certainly, but probably her old school and possibly even her life. But she surprised him. "I want to sleep without nightmares," she said.

Peter thought about it for a second. He knew he couldn't chase away nightmares, but at least she'd given him the opportunity to make a gesture.

"I'll turn the light on," he said. "Then we'll go back to sleep."

To Be Continued . . . .


	5. StepSisters

**Saturday 10:30 a.m.**

After hearing Olivia's account of her four-year sojourn at St. Agnes's, Peter admitted that Frau Heorr was the least likely of suspects. Therefore, he felt almost relived when she went out to brunch with her old German teacher, leaving him to navigate his way through the dark waters that were her former classmates. The easiest and least suspicious mode of investigation for Peter was to interrogate the women's husbands and boyfriends. Over breakfast he chatted up six of the 'and guests' who had also lost their partner to reunion activities. He found the conversation unbelievably dull. In the end, he felt safe eliminating Jessica Hold, Marian McMillan, Talia Bodivish, Cara Hillcrest, Sylvia Radclif, and Suzanne Plavat from his list of suspects. He also arranged to go into town with Greg McMillan and Kevin Hillcrest to rent a tux after lunch.

After breakfast was done, some of the men went off to find their significant others, some went to the gym in hopes of a pick-up game of hoops, but Peter stayed in the dining hall and contemplated his next move. Olivia had said that no one at the reunion had a southern accent, so his only lead seemed to go nowhere. He would, of course, keep his ear open for an accent, but he had a sinking feeling that she was right - that someone had been disguising their voice. So, Peter would have to look for someone with acting ability - someone who could fake an accent. The person would probably also have to have an aptitude for science; after all, she had known about Cortexiphan. Not a lot of science nerds were also actors - so maybe his job would be easy. On the other hand, both of his deductions were based on big assumptions.

He looked around, hoping for some inspiration, but nothing presented itself. Most of the tables were empty. The few that weren't were filled with women chatting excitedly. Actual research seemed to be the only path open to him.

On the right side of the hall, all the yearbooks covering this class's time at St. Agnes's were on display. Peter thought he might as well flip through them and try to find a student who was good at both drama and science. He could also look for students from the South that were not at the reunion. The message was, after all, a warning to stay away. The woman who called may have taken her own advice.

But before he got to the books, he noticed five posters propped up on easels next to the table. It was obvious at a glance that each poster was a memorial to a student or faculty member who had been part of this class. There was Mrs. Sue Metota, a classmate of Olivia's, who had died tragically of brain cancer in 2009, leaving behind a husband 4-year-old daughter; Mr. Benjamin Colbert, Biology professor then dean, who had died in a car crash in 2005; Father Alfred Black, the Anglican priest who had presided over the school as Chaplain, who died of prostate cancer in 2000; Miss Georgette DeCoursy, the European history professor, who had died of emphysema in 1999; and Miss Tina Kelly, Olivia's best friend, who committed suicide by jumping off the school's bell tower in 1997.

Obviously, Tina was not a suspect. Furthermore, Peter didn't think her death had anything to do with Olivia's current situation. Still, he couldn't help but look at it.

In the center of the poster was a photograph of Tina smiling broadly. Tina was a cute girl, though not pretty. She had bright red hair in tight ringlet curls, clear porcelain skin, and dark blue eyes. There was a photo of her with a cello in a string quartet and another photo of her with goggles on holding some fizzing chemicals at what appeared to be a science fair. Like Olivia had said, Tina clearly loved the water. There were pictures of her and her sister when they were very young girls, ice skating hand-in-hand. There was a picture of an older Tina on a summer day, her hair pulled back, in a swimsuit in front of the ocean, or maybe a large lake. And a picture of Tina in the back of a canoe on the St. Agnes's pond. A blond girl sat in the front of the canoe, looking back at her friend instead of the camera. Peter's heart jumped as he realized he was looking at young Olivia. He'd never seen a picture of her as a child, and for a couple of minutes, he was consumed by examining everything about her. Her hair was long, as always, pulled back in a neat ponytail, as always, and she was smiling.

Peter hadn't thought much about how rare it was for Olivia to smile, until she started smiling all the time - or rather, until her double showed up and smiled all the time. He'd assumed she'd never smiled because she'd never been really happy when he'd known her. He'd assumed he'd made her happy. The assumptions were not necessarily incorrect, but the conclusions he'd drawn from them had been. A heavy sense of guilt fell over him - he should have know; he was good at reading people, how did he not know - and he glanced away from the picture. There was a copy of the student paper's obituary, titled "Tina Kelly Remembered," attached to the memorial poster. Attempting to distract himself from his own thoughts, he started reading.

_When I came here, I was scared. I didn't know anyone and my family was far, far away. I thought for sure that people would pick on me. I was afraid of failing my classes and having no friends. But, on my first night here, I met Tina._

_She was smarter than anyone else I'd ever met. She loved math and science, and was addicted to Sherlock Holmes stories, just like me. She had a passion for everything having to do with the water. She loved swimming, ice skating, and boating - all of which she taught me how to do in the little pond in the woods. She was not popular like sister, but she was kind to everyone, and everyone liked her. She was my best friend, but she was everyone else's friend too. _

_My favorite memories of Tina are not from the numerous spring breaks I spent with her family at their lake house, our eight-grade class trip to D.C., or this year's language-expansion trip to Germany. I do have fond memories of her from all those times that I'll cherish forever. However, the best memories are of everyday things, like whispered conversations after lights-out and Saturday afternoons skating on the pond._

_Tina was there for me every day. She always made me laugh, and she got my jokes. I don't know why she decided to do what she did, but I do know that she made the most of her too-short life. She lived every day to its fullest and did everything with a passion that I find inspiring. I may not be able to whisper to her at night ever again, but I will always hear her whispering to me - telling me that she believes in me. So, in that way, Tina will always be my best friend. _

Peter took a deep breath and confirmed what he'd guessed as soon as he read the second sentence. The eulogy had been written by Olivia.

Peter continued to stare at Tina Kelly's memorial, wondering if Olivia had felt the same kind of guilt he was feeling now - the 'I should have known' guilt. He wondered if she'd ever gotten over it. He wondered if it was the reason she didn't smile like the girl in the picture.

"S'cuse me," a women with a nasally voice said, startling Peter out of his contemplations. He turned and saw a group of three women, each of them looking at him curiously.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

"I'm Kate," the nasal-voiced women said. She was tall and skinny with short brown hair - what Peter would call a 'professional' cut. "This is Lyla" Kate said, motioning to a tall but cubby blond women, "and Pat," she said motioning to the third woman, a shorter and very beautiful black woman with long hair in dreadlocks. "And rumor has it that you are Dunham's boyfriend" Kate continued.

"That's the rumor, yes," Peter answered dryly. He wasn't exactly feeling up to being a debonair conversationalist who would charm information out of Olivia's old acquaintances - but he didn't see that he had much choice. He forced a smile and asked, "I assume you were friends at school."

"Of course," Lyla answered enthusiastically. "We hung out in her room all the time."

Peter's forced smile turned sardonic, Olivia had talked about how Nina and her very-popular posy had hung out in their room, making it unbearable, driving her and Tina to the boathouse.

"So, are you the roommate Katie, then?" Peter asked, turning to Kate.

"No," Kate said. "Katie Ludding couldn't make it this weekend. I think she lives in Hawaii now."

"Yeah," Pat, said. "Her husband owns a luxury hotel right of Waikiki beach. The national surfing championships will be there next month, so she was really too busy to come."

"If I lived in Hawaii, I wouldn't bother to make excuses about not coming to upstate New York in the winter," Peter said.

"Where do you live?" Kate asked. She sounded conversational, but Peter could tell it was a pointed question.

"Boston," he said. "We have a little house not far from Harvard, though we both travel so much, it isn't much like a home."

"You must be pretty serious, to share a house," Pat noted.

"There aren't words for how I feel about Olivia," Peter said honestly.

"Strong sentiment," Pat said, turning to her friends with a knowing smile. "I had no idea ice-cold Dunham could get so hot."

"I have a feeling you never really knew Olivia," Peter observed. "In fact, I'm pretty sure she told me about you - all of you. Pat, you were the star of the Basketball team, right? And, Lyda, you managed the team. Kate, you were the captain and, as Olivia tells it, the meanest of the three. The Coven is what Olivia used to call you, I think."

The three women looked at each other, clearly surprised into silence by Peter's frankness.

"Now, I was pretty popular in High School too," Peter said. "And I know that kids are vicious to each other without really meaning it. I also know that after Tina died; you were all less vicious - which I take to mean that you never really hated her. Still, I find it odd that after years of teasing, and then years of silence, suddenly you want to know everything about her."

"It's not like that," Kate said, after a moment's hesitation. "At least, for me it isn't. Looking back on it all . . . I wish I'd been nicer." She glanced at her friends, "I think we all do."

"Honestly, I just wanted to be friendly," Pat said. "I know I was a bitch back then . . . but we were kids. I thought maybe we could move beyond that."

"And, really," Lyla added. "I am interested in Olivia's life. I mean, she's got the coolest job of anyone at the reunion - a special agent for the FBI. I'm a stay-at-home mom."

"Me too," Pat said.

"I was curious," Kate concluded. "Really, didn't mean any harm."

Peter offered the three women a small smile and nodded. He hadn't known them as teenagers, but he felt he could say, with some certainty, that they hadn't changed. For whatever reason, they had always compared themselves to Olivia - probably other girls as well. When Olivia was a reserved, awkward, bookish, teen, they felt good about themselves because they were confident, pretty and popular. When Olivia was a grief-stricken friend, they could feel good about themselves because they were oh-so charitable and nice to her. Now that Olivia was a dashing FBI agent with a globetrotting boyfriend, they didn't look so good by comparison. They were probably digging for dirt - trying to prove that something they had was better than everything she had. Peter knew that, if these women could know what was really going on in Olivia's life, they'd have what they wanted. But he didn't want to give them that pleasure.

"Her life is amazing," Peter said. "International travel, top secret documents . . . not to mention the incredible feeling of knowing you make a difference in the world. She's stopped terrorism attacks, rescued kidnapped children, and witnessed scientific breakthroughs. If they made a TV show about her life, people wouldn't believe it."

"You're teasing us," Lyla said. She was trying to sound playful, but her eyes looked uncertain. "I bet most of what she does is paperwork."

"If you really thought that," Peter said. "You wouldn't want to know about her life. Who cares about a paper pusher? But if the government let people know what Olivia really did . . ." Peter glanced conspiratorially from one woman to another, " . . . everything would change."

"No way," Pat laughed, as if she was calling his bluff. "You just want her to seem important. Revenge for how we treated her twenty years ago."

"You think?" Peter asked. "Maybe."

"Well, one thing Olivia has does make me jealous," Kate said. "You. My ex-husband isn't nearly so handsome or witty."

"Flattery won't change my story," Peter said. "Olivia saves the world on a weekly basis."

All three women laughed now. They thought he was joking, and they thought he'd let them in on the joke. "So how did you two meet?" Lyla asked.

"Baghdad, of all places," Peter said. "I was meeting with some very wealthy developers from the UAE, she was on official business."

"Was it love at first sight?" Lyla asked.

"Let's just say, I came home with her and I've never looked back."

"Baghdad," Pat said with amazement. "What a place to fall in love. Was it romantic, or was it just scary?"

"Well, we were in the heart of the green zone," Peter said, "So we . . . "

But, before he could finish spinning exaggerated remembrances of his first meeting with Olivia, a fourth women interrupted them.

"Kate, Pat, Ly, there you are," she called across the room. Peter turned and saw a women in sweats, with her bright red hair pulled back in a tight braid, her clear porcelain skin glowing, as if she'd been running, and her bright blue eyes flashing with annoyance. "We've got a game - boys verses girls. Mike says he will take you down, Pat - what do you say to that?"

"I say he hasn't seen Kate's lay-ups," Pat answered with attitude.

"Do you play basketball?" Lyla asked Peter.

"No," Peter said, glad for an opportunity to get away from Olivia's former classmates. "I'm more of a baseball guy."

"Dunham never liked it much either," Kate said. "But that's probably just because we were on the team. Hey, Nina, did you meet Peter Queen?"

"No, I don't think so," Nina said, coming up and smiling warmly at Peter. "Who are you with?"

"Olivia Dunham," Peter said.

Nina's smile faded. "Liv came?" she asked in a much softer tone.

"She wasn't planning to," Peter said, watching Nina very closely. "But she had a hard couple of months and decided she really needed to reconnect with old friends."

"Well, that sucks," Nina said.

"Nina," Kate scolded playfully. "You realize you just said it sucks that Dunham came."

"I'm sorry," Nina said quickly. "I meant that it sucks that she had a bad month, or whatever. I always say the dumbest things. Please tell Liv I say hi." Then, quickly looking away from Peter, she addressed her friends. "We don't want to keep the guys waiting."

With a few more adieus, the group of women left, and Peter felt compelled to do as much research on Nina Kelly as possible.

**Saturday 12:30 p.m.**

Olivia had returned from her breakfast with Frau Heorr just in time to see Peter leaving with a group of men to go to town and rent a tux.

"Have a good morning?" he asked her as they stood in the freezing parking lot waiting for the remainder of Peter's group to congregate.

"It was great," she said. "How did you do?"

"I'm not sure," Peter said. "I met some of your old friends. The coven."

Olivia laughed, "Yeah?"

"They were interested in you."

"Really?"

"Base curiosity, mostly," Peter said. "But Nina . . ."

"Nina Kelly?" Olivia asked, a hint of disbelief in her voice. "I didn't think she was here."

"She didn't think you were here, either," Peter said. "She seemed pretty upset when she found out you came."

"Nina Kelly . . ." Olivia said again, contemplating the name.

"I did some research," Peter said. "She's an actress, off Broadway in New York. Last year she played Mae in a production of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof."

"So?" Olivia asked.

"It's by Tennessee Williams, and takes place in the south. She almost certainly had to master a southern accent."

"Nina Kelly," Olivia repeated, trying to wrap her mind around the idea. "I suppose. It's just . . ."

"What?" Peter asked. "Is there that much of a difference is there between high-school bullying and death threats?"

"Nina was never like that," Olivia said. "She may not have reigned in her friends, but she wouldn't have hurt anyone that Tina loved. And after Tina died . . . we had both lost so much. For those few weeks before end-of-term, we were actually really close. I can't believe she would want to hurt me now."

"Well," Peter said with a shrug, "It was kind of a shot in the dark. The yearbooks were interesting, but not knowing exactly what I was looking for, I can't say they narrowed down the list of suspects. I tried talking to some of your classmates, but, without exception, they either came on to me or lectured me on flirting. I don't think I'll get far there. So, I figured I might as well keep talking to the husbands, see if they let anything slip."

"Sounds like a good plan," Olivia said.

"Don't be killed while I'm gone," Peter implored her.

"I'll try not to," Olivia said, offering Peter a sliver of a smile.

He responded with a smile of his own before getting into the minivan and leaving her alone.

**To Be Continued . . . .**


	6. Miscreant Revealed

_**Author's note**__: Because someone asked (and I could not find their profile to save my life), Hoerr is an Americanization of the German name Hörr. The internet tells me it is "possibly a derivative of Middle High German hor 'dirt', 'mire'."____While I've never had the pleasure of visiting Germany, I am related to quite a few German-Americans with this particular surname. _

_Also, my apologies to all writing teachers for this chapter. I loved my high-school writing teachers, and I love all the writing teachers to whom I am related. In general, I think writing teacher's are great human beings. _

**Saturday 12:45 p.m.**

Olivia walked into the hall planning to examine the yearbooks herself. Peter said he hadn't found anything, but Olivia had a lot more experience with the people and the places those books documented. She had no doubt they would tell her things. If those things would help her figure out who'd threatened her, she could not say. But this was her reunion. Threats or not, she had come here to remember an important part of her life, and she was not going let this opportunity go.

She flipped through the books for about twenty minutes, looking closely at the photos of science fairs. Had anyone ever done a project on brain chemistry? She didn't remember any, nor could she find evidence of one in the yearbooks - but that didn't mean much. She started wondering if there was some other way to check when she felt a presence behind her. She turned quickly and saw the once-but-no-longer intimidating form of Mrs. Colbert, the strict writing professor who'd been her bane sophomore year.

Olivia had never liked Mrs. Colbert - mostly, because she had never figured out how to succeed in the teacher's class. Frau Heorr had told her to think like a German, Olivia had attempted to do so, got an A in the class, and accordingly adored the old teacher. Mrs. Colbert had never given Olivia such helpful advice. Olivia had religiously followed Mrs. Colbert's unhelpful and clichéd instructions, such as 'write what you know', but nothing she wrote ever seemed to satisfy the teacher. At the time, Olivia had been sure the writing professor had had a grudge against her for some unknown reason. Now, Olivia was mature enough to realize that she just was not a great writer, and had really done B- work. Still, Olivia had to overcome the strong feeling of dislike and resentment that washed over her when she saw her old professor.

"Good afternoon, Miss Dunham."

"Mrs. Colbert," she said with a forced smile. "I saw you last night, but we didn't get to talk. How are you?"

"Oh, fine," the older woman said with a sigh and a glance at the memorials to Olivia's right. "Considering."

Olivia followed her gaze and, for the first time, realized that Mr. Colbert had died. "Let me just say that I am so sorry for your loss," Olivia said with as much empathy as she could generate on the spot. "He made a huge difference in my life, sponsoring my application and arranging for the scholarships. I'm sure he's terribly missed."

"He was a great loss to this school," Mrs. Colbert continued. "I genuinely pity the girls here now. The entire culture has shifted, less disciplined, less formal. I realize it's modern, but I do not think it is good. Surely, you would not have been prepared for your career in law enforcement if your professors had gone around addressing you girls by first name."

Olivia had no idea what to say to that. She didn't feel that being addressed as Olivia, Liv, or Miss Dunham had made an impact on her education and eventual career one way or the other, but she didn't want to argue the point. "Mr. Colbert's discipline was certainly formative," she said quickly - feeling this phrase was vague enough to be interpreted as a complement, even though she didn't really mean it that way.

"Was it?" she asked hopefully, though she clearly did not expect an answer to the question, as she immediately changed the subject. "You know, I had not hoped to see you here again."

"I didn't plan to come," Olivia admitted. "But I've found myself wanting to reconnect to my past, recently."

"Recently?" Mrs. Colbert asked with surprising interest. "What happened recently to change your perspective?"

For a second, Olivia was surprised by the intrusive question. But she quickly remembered that Mrs. Colbert had always been that way - curious, intrusive, and tactless. As a student, Olivia had had to accepted and even accommodate these bad qualities. She had no intention of doing so anymore.

"That's not important," she said dismissively. "It's just good to be with old friends."

"Yes, of course," Mrs. Colbert said. If she'd noticed that Olivia dogged the question, she didn't show it. "I imagine that you'll be spending lots of time with Mrs. Jacobsen."

"Mrs. Jacobsen?' Olivia asked. "I'm not sure I know her."

"Miss Kelly that was," Mrs. Colbert clarified. "You didn't know she'd gotten married?"

"No," Olivia said, realizing they were talking about Nina. "We lost touch when I left. Is her husband here?"

"I believe not," Mrs. Colbert said. "Though, I could not help but notice that you saw fit to bring a boyfriend. Are you two in a serious relationship?"

"Ah, yes," Olivia said, justifying her response by assuring herself that her relationship with Peter was serious. Everything she did with the Fringe Division - which included everything she'd ever done with Peter - was deadly serious.

"Who is he?"

"I thought you met him last night."

"We were not introduced," Mrs. Colbert said.

"His name is Peter Queen," Olivia said. "He sells fine wine." Not knowing what, if anything, Peter had told anyone else, she prayed that explanation would be enough.

"I always thought you would be the kind of person who was married to her work," Mrs. Colbert said. "You were always preternaturally focused, Miss Dunham."

"Though, that focus never seemed to have a positive impact on my grade."

"I assure you," Mrs. Colbert said. "Had you been less focused, I would not have given you the grades I did."

Again, Olivia found herself dumbfounded by Mrs. Colbert's remark. But, before she was able to conceive a response, Mrs. Colbert changed the topic again. "Mrs. Jacobsen has kept in touch with me through the years. I imagine it is because I was so close to dear Miss Kelly."

"Oh," was all Olivia could think to say. Olivia, who had been Tina's best friend, who had shared a room with her and copy-edited all of her papers, had not known that Tina and Mrs. Colbert were close. It had come out after the suicide that Tina had come to Mrs. Colbert many times, sharing very dark poetry about the futility of life. Many parents criticized Mrs. Colbert for not doing more to help Tina, but Mrs. Colbert argued that there was little she could do. She claimed Tina had never spoken directly of suicide, and many young women express their ennui through poetry. Olivia had been baffled by this development - she felt sure she should have known her friend was confiding in the writing professor. But, as she had not known her friend was suicidal, she had to admit that there were many important parts of Tina's life that had been hidden.

"I hope you don't mind me bringing up Miss Kelly," Mrs. Colbert said. "I recall that you two were very close."

"Yes, we were."

"It was a shame," Mrs. Colbert went on. "She never did any good work in class, but the poetry she showed me in private had such potential."

"The poetry that talked about suicide?" Olivia asked, trying not to sound angry.

"Mrs. Jacobsen named her daughter Christiana, did you know that?" Mrs. Colbert said, apparently not registering Olivia's comment. "I understand that the young Miss Jacobsen will be attending here in a few year's time. I very much look forward to seeing the girl."

"Really?" Olivia asked skeptically. "After seeing her sister commit suicide, Nina plans to send her daughter here?"

"Mrs. Jacobsen saw the very best of this community," Mrs. Colbert insisted. "Had you stayed for your junior and senior years, Miss Dunham, you would know how kind and supportive this school is. You must remember; we took you in when no other school would have you. We gave you a family for four years. But when we needed you, when Mrs. Jacobsen in particular needed a connection to her sister, you vanished."

Olivia was speechless, not because Mrs. Colbert had been rude, but because she had been right. Less than an hour ago, she had told Peter that she and Nina had become close after Tina's death. Still, Olivia had not gone back to St. Agnes's for her junior and senior years. It had been her mother's decision, but Olivia had not fought it. Even more damning, Olivia had made no effort to keep in touch with her best-friend's family. She could have sent a Christmas card. She could have remembered Nina on her birthday, or the family on the day Tina died. She had never called, though she could still remember the Kelly's home phone number. Mrs. Colbert was right; Olivia had abandoned Nina.

"That was a mistake," Olivia finally said. "I was sixteen and I . . ."

"Excuses may make you feel better, but they make no difference to me, Miss Dunham," Mrs. Colbert said - as she had said to every student who fruitlessly attempted to turn in a late paper or make-up a missed quiz. There was a tone of compassion in her voice, but Olivia could not bring herself to believe it was genuine. "You ought to talk to Mrs. Jacobsen. But, you must excuse me; I have arranged to meet Miss Wildman. She writes occasionally for _The New Yorker_, you know. Have a good day."

Olivia's old teacher turned abruptly and walked away. Olivia stared at her, wondering what the hell that was about, and feeling absolutely sick with herself.

**Saturday 4:56 p.m.**

"Come on," Olivia said with teasing-impatience. "I thought it was women who take forever to get ready."

"Do you know how to tie a bow tie?" Peter demanded from the other side of the door.

"No," Olivia said.

"Then you don't have the right to rush me," Peter asserted.

"Isn't that one of those things every man is supposed to know?"

"Every man is supposed to know it, and I do know it," Peter asserted. "But it's a perishable skill."

"Don't tie a lot of bow ties on your time off?" Olivia asked.

"Oddly no," Peter said, finally immerging from the walk-in closet. The rented tux, not surprisingly, didn't fit him very well. The shiny shoes rubbed uncomfortably against his heels, the neck was just a hair to tight, and the shirt seemed ridiculously long. Still, he knew clothes appeared good or bad mostly depending on the confidence you exuded when you wore them, so Peter relied on his endless supply of self-confidence and came out looking very good. However, when he saw Olivia, he knew that he didn't hold a candle to her.

She had been dejected all afternoon, though she insisted nothing had happened to upset her. They'd spent several hours examining records in the library, trying to find some indication that someone from that school had ever been interested in brain chemistry or multi-dimensional experimentation - to no avail. For Olivia's sake, Peter pretended the fruitless investigation was the cause of her depression. But the sadness and regret in her eyes were caused by something much more troubling then a wasted afternoon.

And that, Peter had realized, was what had always attracted him to Olivia: the amazing way she could simultaneously contain and express her pain. He'd never seen her break down - not completely. When she had rejected him as a lover she had cried, and been angry, but he had not doubted for a moment that she was in control. If they had received a call to come to a crime scene, she would have taken a deep breath and gone and not even Astrid would have known Olivia's heart was broken. But it would have been in her eyes for anyone to see, if they cared to look.

Those eyes were now emphasized with smoky eye shadow and long eye lashes. Her pale, occasionally freckled skin had been made smooth and flawless and her perfectly shaped lips were glossy and tinted a pretty pink. She'd pulled her long, straw blond hair into a loose, simple, elegant bun. The only jewelry she wore was a chunky silver charm bracelet on her left wrist, a vintage accent to her simple and stunning dress. It was white, with a black lace overlay. There was a wide neckline, which fell off her right shoulder exposing more clear, creamy skin. The sleeves were short and wide, hanging loosely to about her elbows and the top was loose, leaving a black belt to reveal her tiny waist. The skirt was simple, ending just above her knees. The vintage look was completed with real silk stockings, with a seam up the back of the leg, and simple black pumps. The only splash of color in her outfit was her emerald green clutch.

"Are you ready?" she asked, a hint of impatience in her voice.

"I'm just taking you in," Peter responded, with unwise honesty. He noticed every muscle in her body tense, as if to ward off that unwanted gaze, so he quickly looked away, to the desk where his wallet and phone were sitting, as if grabbing those was a consuming task. "But, yeah," he said. "I'm ready."

Olivia grabbed her coat and they started for the hall. Cocktails had started nearly an hour ago, at 4:00, so everyone else was already there. Peter didn't mind a few extra moments alone with Olivia, but she clearly wanted to be at the party - whether to enjoy the company of old friends or avoid him, he couldn't say. Her briskness almost certainly had something to do with the hurt in her eyes, but he didn't have the courage to ask her about it, and he knew she would never say. So, instead, he tried small talk.

"It's a real pretty dress. Did you get it for this?"

"I guess," Olivia said. "I hadn't bought a dress in a while. Actually, I hadn't bought any new clothes for a while, so I took myself on a little spree."

"Sounds fun," Peter observed dryly "Glad I wasn't there."

"My laptop, a bottle of merlot, the Amazon credit card, and I had a great time without you," Olivia said.

Peter opened the door for Olivia and instantly regretted not bringing his coat. The freezing December air cut through his cheap rented tux and gave him goose bumps.

They started to walk quickly across the expanse of the courtyard. The night was bitterly cold, heavy clouds blocked out moon and starlight, and a fog had stagnated in the courtyard, so that even the lights from the buildings surrounding them were dim and hazy. Had things been different, Peter could well imagine this setting being romantic. He could have walked side by side with Olivia, his arm around her waist to keep her warm. The thrilling juxtaposition of being out in the open, yet so totally alone would have, certainly, inspired him to steal a kiss. But as it was, he was two steps behind her. The fog seemed ominous, almost sinister, and he couldn't wait to get into a crowded ballroom where he could at least see the people who may be trying to kill Olivia.

Perhaps it was because the setting seemed so menacing that Peter noticed the slight flicker of red light dancing in the sky. He thought for sure his eyes were playing tricks on him, so he looked again, scanning the rolling white and gray mist in front of them for hints of red. He found it: a straight red stream of light was hanging in the air between them and the crenellations on the roof of the hall.

"Olivia," he said slowly, even as his mind raced towards the significance of that red light in the sky. "We have to run."

"What?" she asked, craning her head around her shoulder to hear him better.

"We have to run," Peter told her as he broke into a run himself. He grabbed her arm and started tugging her towards the safety of the closest building, the Hall. He did not stop to think that it was also the current location of Olivia's assassin.

They were only twenty yards away when something like a well-thrown baseball hit Peter's left shoulder. The cold air and the spiked adrenalin numbed his shoulder almost immediately, and he kept running. A moment later, they were in foyer of the hall, panting from the excretion and overheating from the sudden change in temperature.

"What was that about?" Olivia demanded loudly, drawing the attention of the girl working coat-check and the girls sitting at the check-in table, handing out nametags.

"I saw a laser sight," Peter told her quietly, still panting. "In the fog. It was pointed at us - you."

Olivia looked at him quizzically for a moment, but she quickly paled and her bewildered eyes became sharp and focused. "Oh my God, Peter!" She reached up to his chest, putting one hand on his breast and wrapping her other hand around something by his left shoulder. Using his rib cage as leverage, she pulled. Pain ripped through his shoulder. He gasped and took a step back.

"It's collared," Olivia said. Her voice sounded troubled, which was perfectly reasonable considering she was holding the nasty vial from a tranquilizer rifle in her hand. "That must have hurt like a bitch."

"A tranquilizer?" Peter said.

"It could have been a bullet," Olivia said, with the realization that it was only the caprice of an assassin that they were both alive instead of bleeding to death in the snow.

"But, why a tranquilizer?" Peter insisted.

"I'm more concerned about who right now," Olivia said, glancing around. Her eyes fixed on the girls sitting at the check-in table. "He needs to lie down," Olivia yelled to the girls handing out nametags. "And see a doctor, right away."

The two girls stared at them for a second. Finally, the girl at the coat check took action. "Louise," she said sharply. "There's a couch in the teachers' lounge, take him there. Jenna, go find Mr. and Mrs. Hold - I'm pretty sure they're both doctors."

"He's a radiologist and she's an obstetrician," Peter scoffed. "What are they going to do?"

"Get them now," Olivia ordered. Then she turned to the girl at the coat check. "Call the police."

"Yes Ma'am," the coat check girl said.

The two girls at the table looked at each other nervously before following their orders. The smaller one got up and snuck into the swarm of people in the hall. The larger girl approached Peter with obvious trepidation.

"Call Boyles," Olivia told him as she handed him the dart he'd been shot with. "They made their move, and we need the badges." She opened her purse and pulled out her gun.

"You brought your gun to the dance?" Peter asked, flabbergasted. The young girl who was supposed to help him froze in her tracks, staring at the black weapon, dumbfounded.

"You said someone was trying to kill me," Olivia said as she handed him her empty purse. "I'd say it was a good thing I did."

"I should go with you," Peter said as Olivia turned and started towards the broad stairway that lead up, first to the student lounge and eventually to the roof. "Whatever they shot me with, the dosage was for you. I might not even feel the effects."

"And you might pass out any minute," Olivia countered. "Get backup and stay safe," she ordered as she disappeared up the bend in the staircase, not bothering to spare a glance for Peter.

He stared at the stairway for a moment as worry churned in his chest.

"Um, sir?" the girl behind him squeaked. "Do you want to sit down, or something?"

"Yeah, I guess," Peter muttered. He was starting to feel dizzy, but he thought he'd probably be able to walk it off.

**To Be Continued . . . .**


	7. Confession and Anxiety

**Confession and Anxiety**

Peter started to feel dizzy as Olivia had run up the stairs. Ignoring the sensation, he pulled his phone out and did as she asked, calling Boyles.

"This had better be important, Bishop," Boyles said sharply. "The Hoyas are only up by three points with six seconds to go and Marquette has the ball."

"Someone shot me," Peter said bluntly. "They were trying to shoot Olivia."

Peter had heard a roar of cheers over the line, presumably because something dramatic happened in the college basketball game, but Peter could tell by the gravity in Boyles' voice that he was no longer paying attention to it. "Are you in the hospital? Why hasn't Agent Dunham contacted me?"

"It just happened a minuet ago. Olivia's perusing the sniper."

"Forgive me for saying this, but you don't sound like a man who's been shot."

"It wasn't a regular gun. I was shot with a tranquilizer dart. We don't know what was in it. So far I'm only a little dizzy. Maybe that'll be all."

"Where are you?"

"Upstate New York. St. Agnes's school for Girls outside of Middleburg."

"What on earth are you doing there?" Boyles demanded. There were a series of sickening groans in the background. The basketball game must have taken a turn for the worse.

"Olivia had a school reunion and I met her up here. Look, I'll tell you the whole story in detail later. The point is, we were attacked, and we need backup, now."

"Have you contacted local authorities yet?"

"No," Peter said. "You were the first person I called. I think one of the girls at the school is calling 911."

Raucous cheers came from the other side of the phone. Georgetown must have won the game. "I see," Boyles had said dryly. "I'll make contact with the local authorities and notify them that this is a federal crime and, as such, we will be investigating. I'll also have Agent Farnsworth collect your father. We can be at the school in less than three hours."

"Sounds good," Peter said as his voice wavered and the dizziness got worse. "See you then."

He lowered the phone, not bothering to try and end the call. A headache was growing behind the bridge of his nose, and he had a feeling that looking at the glowing screen of a smart phone would only make it worse.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to overcome the pain and vertigo in his head. "You said there was someplace to sit down," he asked the girl, Louise, who was still hovering near him.

"Um, yeah," she'd said nervously. "Follow me."

Peter was forced to open his eyes and follow her across the foyer to a set of French doors set with leaded stained glass portraying the school seal. Tentatively, Louise tried one of the doors and it swung open easily, revealing a large and homey room. There were two light-brown Chippendale couches, and a mishmash of other straight-backed armchairs in various muted colors scattered throughout the room. The wall on the far right had a large fireplace. The wall on the left had a set of secretary's desks and a full bookshelf. The wall before them was dominated by windows looking out to the old dormitory, casting a very dim light into the room.

Peter did not wait for Louise to find the light switches. He went to the nearest couch and sat down, and leaned forward, propping his head on his knees, and waited for the dizziness to go away. But it didn't. It got worse.

Peter lifted his head, hoping to reposition himself on couch when his dizziness turned to nausea and he vomited all over his rented tux. He felt better momentarily, until he heard Dr. Mike Hold say, "Oh, that's disgusting."

"Mike," Dr. Jessica Hold scolded. "Peter doesn't need your judgment right now."

"In fairness," Peter said through heavy breaths. "It is really disgusting."

"Sorry, Peter," Mike said. "But this is why I became a radiologist. I like clean things."

"Then go to the kitchen and get some towels so we can clean this up," Jessica ordered.

Over the next few minutes, Jessica helped him out of his soiled tuxedo jacket and shirt while patiently holding a wastebasket for him while he wrenched up everything he'd eaten in the past four days. When there was nothing left in his stomach, he continued to gag, spitting out stomach acid and bile. He was totally unable to stand, and even sitting he had the unpleasant sensation that he was about to fall off the world. He felt feverish, though Dr. Hold assured him that his temperature was normal.

"Here's the towels and some warm water," Mike said as he came from the kitchen. Presently, Peter felt Jessica gently wiping off his face, chest, and hands. It felt good, but it did not make him feel better.

Olivia slowed her pace and held her gun in front of her as she approached the top of the stairs. The student lounge was a modern addition to the old hall. It was a long room, spanning the length of the hall, with a couple of tables for studying, a ping-pong table, several couches, a large TV, and tall windows along the right wall. On the far side of the room there was a door, usually locked, that lead up to the roof. Olivia had been on that roof a handful of times. Various classes had been held up there for various reasons; lessons on astronomy, gravitational physics, or aerodynamics. There was also a key, which had been stolen at some point, which was supposedly passed down from one senior class to the next. The rumor was that the seniors would, occasionally, have drinking parties on the roof - but Olivia had never seen any evidence of that. In any event, that door was the easiest way to the roof, and it was not very secure.

Olivia slipped out of her heals at the edge of the student lounge so as not to make any noise. The only light in the room came in through the windows, making everything gray and grainy. Still, she could clearly see a figure on the far side of the room staring out one of those windows. The person was totally oblivious to her presence, focused entirely on a phone call.

"What do you mean it didn't get done? . . . So, basically, you missed your shot, and now I have to do it . . . I will do whatever I have to . . . No, I don't think I'm overreacting. It's not like we have time to waste!" The woman sighed. Olivia, still unseen, crept closer.

"Fine, fine," the woman said, sounding resigned. "I can do it. Really, I can. . . I love you too." She hung up the phone, looked at it for a second, and then turned, apparently to go back to the hall. But, Olivia was ready, standing directly in her path.

"Oh god," The woman screeched when she saw Olivia. "I thought I was alone."

"Who were you talking to, Nina?" Olivia asked darkly.

"My husband," Nina said cagily. "Not that it's any of your business."

"Where is your husband?" Olivia demanded, taking a step closer.

"That's not your business either," Nina replied. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to enjoy a drink before dinner."

"No I will not excuse you," Olivia said forcefully, grabbing Nina's arm and slamming her against the window. Nina screamed again, from the shock of Olivia's sudden violence, and then a third time when she realized her old friend was armed. "Now," Olivia insisted, "Tell me where you're husband is."

"Oh my god, Olivia," Nina squealed. "Is that a gun?"

"Tell me!" Olivia ordered again. "Where is he? What did he try to shoot me with?"

"Shoot you?" Nina said, she was almost sobbing. "He's at home. He's in Brooklyn. He's never shot anyone."

"But you said he'd missed his shot," Olivia insisted.

Nina stared at Olivia, clearly terrified, clearly confused.

"You just told him you would have to do it yourself," Olivia continued.

"The auditions," Nina exclaimed, relief flooding her voice. "Our daughter was supposed to audition for a youth symphony. There were open auditions this weekend and he forgot to take her - now I have to schedule a private one."

Olivia looked at Nina, wondering how good of a liar this woman could possibly be. The light was too bad to catch many tells, but the terror and urgency of her voice seemed genuine. And there was no hatred.

"You see," Nina continued. "He missed his shot at the audition, now I have to schedule the appointment as soon as possible, because they'll be deciding next week. She plays cello, just like Tina. It'd be a real feather in Chrissie's cap, you know, to be in a symphony so young. A great experience for her."

Olivia let go of Nina and lowered her gun. She was tempted to say something like 'I don't care about your daughter. My friend could have been killed - and he still may die.' But the truth was Olivia did care that Tina's niece, whom Tina never had the chance to meet, played the cello. So, instead, she took a step back and coldly asked. "How long have you been up here?"

"About ten minutes," Nina said, her voice calming. "I wanted to call my daughter and wish her goodnight before I forgot, but it was too loud in the hall. Did you say someone tried to shoot you?"

"Has anyone gone in or come out of this door?" Olivia asked, using her gun to point to the door to the roof.

Nina shook her head, "No. It's been quiet. I saw you walk up . . . I mean, I guess it was probably you . . . it was just a minute ago. I saw you start running. I thought . . . well, I didn't really think about it - but it's so cold out. I ran the whole way from the dorms. Are you OK?"

"They hit Peter, not me," Olivia said, walking cautiously towards the door.

"You're boyfriend? Oh my god."

"Get out of here, Nina," Olivia ordered.

"But what if you need help?" Nina asked anxiously. "Shouldn't I at least call an ambulance for Peter?"

"Yeah, fine, call an ambulance," Olivia said as she tested the doorknob. It was unlocked. She turned to look at Nina, "But do it downstairs. I don't know who's behind here, but I do know they've shot one person tonight."

"Ok," Nina said breathlessly. She started backing away from Olivia, but it quickly turned into a sprint to get out of the student lounge. Once she was on the stairway, Olivia took a deep breath, pulled her gun up to eye-level, and threw open the door.

"Condition?" Mike Hold asked as his wife helped Peter wipe the vomit off his face and hands.

"Not sure," Jessica told him. "He didn't seem sick this afternoon, did he?"

"No," Mike said. "Food poisoning, you think?"

"No," Peter said, forcing the words through his burning throat. "It's the . . ."

His explanation was interrupted by a knock on the doorframe, even though it was open. The doctors looked up to see who it was, but Peter did not dare turn his head. Still, he recognized Nina née Kelly's voice as she said, "Can I come in?"

Jessica glanced at her husband before answering, "I don't see why not."

Nina entered the room cautiously, walking around the back of the furniture until she was standing with her back to the fireplace, behind an embroidered tiffany chair. Peter watched her carefully and wondered why she, of all the former students, had come. He also wondered where Olivia was. He wanted to ask Nina, but he felt sure that if he opened his mouth, he would vomit again. So, with a growing sense of foreboding, he watched and listened.

"I called 911," she informed the room. "They said the paramedics were on their way - would be here soon."

"That's good," Jessica said, once again rubbing Peter's back. "He's expelled a lot of fluid. If nothing else, he'll need and IV."

"Did you stop the bleeding?" Nina asked, clear concern in her voice.

"Bleeding?" Mike asked. "Why would there be bleeding?"

"You know, I did notice a little cut on his chest when I helped him with his shirt," Jessica said, "But it seems to be scabbing up."

"Oh," Nina said, clearly confused by this information. "Do either of you know what happened?"

"Not at all," Jessica said. "One of the students found us and said that Peter was sick and needed a doctor right away. Then we get here and he was sick."

"They were shot, or shot at. I thought Peter was shot, at least," Nina said. "I could see it through the window."

Peter glared at Nina, though she did not look down at him. She was addressing the Holds, establishing her story, and alibi. Was it possible she really didn't know what had happened, or was she playing dumb to see what the Holds knew? In either event, he did not want to risk giving her anything. He glanced at the floor and saw the dart, his cell phone, and Olivia's purse at the edge of the couch near his foot, exactly where he'd dropped them when he sat down. Subtly, he kicked the items under the couch so they would not be visible. He didn't want to give Nina a chance to tamper with evidence.

"This isn't a gun wound," Jessica insisted. "He's sick. It could be viral."

"Contagious?" Nina asked, nervously.

"Peter, you were about to tell us what you thought it was," Mike said.

"It's important for me to see my father," Peter managed to say. "He's coming."

"I'm sure he'll be here soon," Jessica said in her most comforting voice.

"Nina, what did you see that made you think they were shot?" Mike asked.

"Well, they started running," Nina said. "I could see them walking, and then they started running."

"That could have been because there was a really cold wind," Jessica said.

"But, Olivia said they were shot at," Nina insisted. "I saw her upstairs, and she was looking for the person who shot Peter . . . " Nina glanced at Peter and their eyes met. She must have seen the suspicion in his eyes, because she quickly looked away and stammered, "I, I thought that was what happened, at least."

"This is bizarre," Mike said. "Who would shoot someone at a class reunion?"

"Liv does work for the FBI," Nina said, as if that somehow explained it. "I can understand why someone would want to kill her. But I don't see how you could shoot someone to make them very sick. And why would anyone want to do that in the first place?"

"You understand why someone would want to kill Liv?" Mike asked, as if he were voicing Peter's thoughts.

"Well, I don't want to kill her! Or make her sick, even," Nina said quickly. "But, you know, some people do want to kill other people. And if she's in the FBI hunting criminals and murders all the time . . . maybe a lot of people would want to kill her. I don't know."

Jessica rolled her eyes affectionately. "Someday, Nina, you'll learn to think before you speak."

"People have been saying that for years," Nina said with a sigh. Perhaps she was embarrassed, or perhaps she wanted to distract everyone from the thread of conversation, as she said, "But, I should probably go to the parking lot and wait for the ambulance. They may not know which building to go to."

"No, you stay here," Mike said as he looked at her short, sleeveless cocktail dress. "I'll make sure they get here."

"Thank you," Nina said, clearly relieved.

"Yes, thanks Hon," Jessica said as Mike left the room.

There was a moment of silence as Jessica pressed her hand against Peter's forehead.

"You are starting to feel feverish," she told him. "Maybe you'd better lie down."

Despite the nausea and vertigo, Peter managed to lift his head. "I won't rest," he said.

"Peter, you're very ill," Jessica insisted.

Ignoring the doctor's comment, he looked up at Nina and demanded, "Was it you?"

Nina did not look surprised by the question, which was suspicious. But she shook her head and said, "No. Olivia thought so too, but no."

"Where is Olivia?" Peter's voice was scratchy as he pushed the words out of his stomach-acid scared throat. Every syllable hurt, but he had to know the answers.

"On the roof, I guess," Nina said. "She told me to come down here, but I think she was going to the roof."

It was a perfectly plausible explanation, but Peter was inclined not to believe it. Nina Kelly was a professional actress and the only person at the reunion who seemed able to have made the call threatening Olivia's life.

"Why'd you call us on Friday?" Peter asked. He didn't know that she had, but he was pretty sure that her answer to this question would let him know if she'd answered the other ones truthfully.

Nina blanched, looked at Jessica, but quickly looked back at Peter. "I'm so sorry," she said. "If I had known something bad really was going to happen I wouldn't have . . ."

"You warned us," Peter insisted, forcing each word out despite the pain in his throat or the spinning in his head, "about a danger you didn't know about?"

"No, I . . ." she started crying. "I didn't want to see Olivia."

"Nina, sweetie," Jessica said compassionately. "Why?"

"The closer I got to the reunion, the more scared I became," Nina said. "This is where Tina died! I wanted to see my old friends, but I didn't want to have to be stuck in all the pain I felt, I feel, when I think of Tina. And the closer I got, the more upset and anxious I got, so I had this idea - this bad, cruel, stupid idea - that maybe I could scare Olivia away. I knew she worked for the FBI in Boston, so I called and got transferred to her office and someone answered and I just spit out this stupid threat - not because I would ever have hurt her. I just, I wanted her to stay away."

"You called the FBI and threatened an agent?" Jessica said, flabbergasted. "That might be a federal crime. You could go to prison."

"I didn't mean it," Nina continued to sob. "I knew it was stupid as soon as I hung up the phone."

Peter was inclined to believe her. Nina did not strike him as a particularly bright person. And, he knew from his own family history, that the loss of a loved one could drive people to do insane things. But, on the other hand, she was an actress. It was possible she'd fired the shot. It was further possible, he realized with dread, that she'd fired another one.

Peter turned to Jessica, an action which made his head feel like it was going to explode. He gritted his teeth and tried to ignore it. "Tell the cops to find Olivia. When they come, they have to find Olivia."

"She's on the roof," Nina asserted quietly. "She'll probably be down soon."

"All right," Jessica said, looking Peter in the eye. He could tell that she was assuring him because she was his doctor, not because she thought Olivia was in any danger. But he also believed that she would do as she said. "I'll make sure someone finds Olivia as soon as possible."

It wasn't good enough, Peter knew, but it was all he had the power to do.

**To Be Continued . . . .**


	8. Resolution

There was no one waiting on the stairs that lead to the roof. The dim light and bitter cold coming around the bend in the stairway told Olivia that the hatch to the roof was open. She quietly proceeded, hesitating only at the moment just before her head would become visible. Then, with a deep breath and a tight grip on her gun, she propelled herself forward, yelling "FBI, drop your weapon!" as she charged onto the roof.

The snow on the roof was ankle-deep, and Olivia had nothing but her silk stockings to ward off the cold. But she barely registered that. Her entire focus was on the dark figure at the other side of the roof that had, per instructions, dropped the long riffle-shaped object she was holding.

"Who are you?" Olivia shouted as she ran towards the figure. "Why did you try to shoot me?"

"Oh, I'm sorry Ben," the women sobbed to the overcast sky. Olivia instantly recognized her voice. "I tried! I did all I could!"

"Ben," Olivia demanded, stepping closer cautiously. She had not expected to find her old writing professor on the roof, and she dared not discount any further surprises. "Who's Ben?"

"He knew what they'd done to you!" Mrs. Colbert said, turning to Olivia. "He wanted to cure you! You and Tina were girls, innocent girls. Why did they want to make you warriors?"

"Tina," Olivia said, her heart jumping to her throat as her intuition pushed her to a conclusion that seemed impossible. "Did he cure Tina by pushing her off the bell tower?"

"That was an accident, dear," Mrs. Colbert said. The frustrated sorrow had drained out of her voice. Now she sounded tired. But, the change in her old teacher's demeanor did nothing to calm Olivia.

"Don't call me 'dear,'" Olivia ordered harshly. "You killed my best friend, and you shot the man I love as you tried to kill me! Don't pretend you care!"

"Oh no," the woman said. Olivia couldn't tell in the dim light, but it sounded like she was crying. "I didn't mean to hit him. I hope he's all right."

"What was in that tranquilizer dart?" Olivia demanded. "And what does it have to do with Tina?"

"I suppose there's no point in keeping it a secret any longer," the woman said. "Ben is gone. I failed to fulfill his last request. And I suppose I'll spend the rest of my life in jail."

"You tried to kill a federal officer," Olivia said. "What do you think?"

"Not kill," Mrs. Colbert insisted. "We never wanted to hurt anyone. We wanted to cure you!"

"Cure us of what?" Olivia asked. She'd taken for granted that the shots fired were connected to the threatening phone call – but she could not imagine how her stern writing professor would know about the experiments performed on her years before she came to the school.

"Of Cortexiphan, of course," Mrs. Colbert said. She sounded surprised, as if she expected everyone to be familiar with the drug and its life altering effects.

"Tina had been treated with Cortexiphan?" Olivia asked, though she felt sure of the answer.

"Yes," Mrs. Colbert said. "But you must have realized that. You two were like peas in a pod."

"And Mr. Colbert, your husband, the dean, he wanted to cure us."

"Of course," Mrs. Colbert said. "Ben's last wish was that I find you and cure you."

"Why?" Olivia demanded. "How did he even know?"

"Ben was part of a team of scientists at the Wooster Campus of Ohio State University. He was just a grad student then, helping William Bell, the founder of Massive Dynamic . . ."

"I know who William Bell is," Olivia said.

"Then you know that Ben was working with one of the greatest scientific minds of the time. Great, but demented. The more my Ben saw, the more he realized that Bell was not trying to improve intelligence, as he said, but rather change the brain structurally - give people mental powers that would, eventually, lead to a war between worlds."

"A war between worlds?" Olivia asked, almost amused.

"I know it sounds insane," Mrs. Colbert sobbed. "But you have to believe me. William Bell knew that there were parallel universes, and he believed there would be war between them - that we would have to go to war with another universe just like ours. He injected you children with drugs to change your minds, make you super warriors! It was wrong. Disgustingly amoral. Ben swore he'd undo the damage he'd helped create."

"So he created a drug to cure us?" Olivia asked. The idea was intriguing, almost tempting. She was none too fond of her ability to move between worlds, no matter how useful it had proved. And, to her knowledge, every other Cortexiphan child had wanted their ability even less. A cure could be a godsend – if it worked.

"Ben tried for years to find the children he'd harmed. He took a post here because of the Kelly's, so he could cure poor Tina. He was so happy when he saw you wanted to transfer. . . two Cortexiphan students at this school. Two children he could help. He was overjoyed. After years of careful calculation and experimentation, he had the first serum. He called Tina to his office and I held her while he injected it."

"You monster," Olivia said quietly as tears started to form in her eyes.

"You knew Tina," Mrs. Colbert insisted. "You knew she was no warrior! We were trying to help her! But Ben hadn't accounted for something. The serum gave her violent seizures. We, we tried to hold her but we could not. She fell out the window."

"And you told everyone she jumped off the bell tower," Olivia finished. "You lied to her parents, her sister, to ME! You sullied her memory for everyone who loved her!"

"We did it for you, Olivia," Mrs. Colbert insisted. "We needed time to try and save you. Don't you see? We were only trying to help you."

"I don't see that at all," Olivia said. The idea that Tina's murder had been covered up for her sake made her sick. The idea that she, Olivia, would have been better off without Cortexiphan was also sickening. It had given her the power to find Peter. And, perhaps more importantly, it had given her the power to come home again. She still believed, with all her heart, that it would give her the power to save everyone in both worlds, without collision, without war. The idea that Tina could have been there, by her side, helping her do these amazing things was heartbreaking - almost as if she were losing her friend all over again. "I see a sniper on the roof with a gun. What was in that dart?" Olivia demanded.

"It's the cure," Mrs. Colbert said. "Ben said it would counteract the Cortexiphan. I can tell you what's in it. I used his recipe. He worked on it for years . . ."

"And what will it do to a person who was not treated with cortexiphan?" Olivia asked.

"I . . . I," Mrs. Colbert stammered. "I don't know."

"You are under arrest, Mrs. Colbert," Olivia finally said, once she trusted her voice to speak. "For the murder of Tina Kelly, attempted murder of Peter Bishop, and assault on a federal Officer. You have the right to remain silent . . . "

**Saturday 5:40 p.m.**

"Here we are," Mike Hold said as he burst into the door, bringing two sheriff's deputies and a team of four paramedics with him. "The patient is in there," Mike said, pointing towards the teacher's lounge.

The paramedics pushed past the deputies and jogged to the open door of the teacher's lounge. The sheriff's deputy turned to Mike and was, undoubtedly, about to ask were they could find the FBI agent he'd heard so much about, when Olivia said. "Thank God you're here," and quickly approached them from the far corner of the room pulling Mrs. Colbert behind her. She'd had her former teacher in custody for over half an hour, not daring to let go of the woman's arm or even put the safety on her gun. She didn't really think the old woman would try to attack her, or even try to escape. Still, she could not take any risks with Mrs. Colbert. The truth about Tina's death depended on it.

Olivia, however, had not wasted her time with Peter's assailant. She has listened intently, committing to memory ever word and detail, as Mrs. Colbert described how she made the serum that had been shot into Peter. It was designed, she said, to flush through the brain. The neural links created by Cortexiphan had a unique structure, she said, and this drug would destroy that structure. Ben Colbert has hypothesis that the drug would cause a severe headache, akin to a migraine, as it forced its way through the brain. But, he did not think there would be seizures, as happened to Tina. Nor did he believe that any permanent damage would result.

These assurances meant little to Olivia. She knew that Mr. Colbert had been wrong before. Furthermore, she knew that he could not have had Cortexiphan, and therefore, could not have run trials on this drug in animals. Finally, she knew that the woman who'd mixed the chemicals and calculated the dosage was not a scientist, and could easily have made a mistake. Olivia wanted as much information as possible to give to the doctors, and eventually Walter, so that they could counteract whatever was in Peter's system before the drug did too much damage and Olivia lost her best friend, again.

"I take it you're Miss Dunham?" The sheriff's deputy asked. He was a very tall and solidly built man, easily 6' 10'' and 250 pounds. He wore a thick black mustache, the kind sheriff's deputies always wore on TV, and had extremely large hands. The name Brewster was embroidered on his chocolate-brown uniform jacket.

"I'm Special Agent Dunham from the FBI. My division should have contacted you by now to explain . . ."

"Yes, Miss Dunham," Deputy Brewster said. "I understand that a team is in transit from Boston right now. This pertains to some sort of ongoing investigation."

"That's correct," Olivia said. "Now, I need you to take custody of the suspect until they arrive. Cuff her and take her statement - in that order. I need to go check on the victim."

The deputy opened his mouth, perhaps to argue, perhaps to acquiesce. But Olivia didn't bother to find out what he was going to say. She shoved Mrs. Colbert towards him, hoping he would at least have the good sense to follow simple commands.

Olivia rushed to the teachers' lounge, her heart in her throat, hoping against hope that Peter was all right. She had been in the room once before, just after Tina died. She, Nina, and Katie had been sequestered there during a horrible pre-dinner meeting where the rest of the school was informed of Tina's suicide. Each of them had been pulled out of class and informed individually. Olivia remembered, with bitter rage, that Mr. Colbert had told her, and then escorted her to the teacher's lounge where Nina was waiting.

As she entered the room, Olivia was surprised to find that it had not changed a bit. Even the small white doilies used for coasters were the same. Olivia's strong association with that time, and those feelings, was not helped by the fact that Nina jumped out of a chair and ran towards Olivia, just as she had years before.

"Thank God you're all right," Nina sobbed, hugging Olivia before the later had a chance to avoid the embrace. "Peter's so sick, and so worried about you. He didn't want me to leave the room because he thought I would hurt you, or had hurt you, or something. Come on." As quickly as she'd embraced Olivia, she let go, grabbed Olivia's hand, and dragged her over to the couch, where Peter was lying down. Jessica Hold and one of the paramedics were kneeling in front of the couch examining Peter, while the other paramedic stood behind the couch, pulling the various instruments needed to give an IV out of his black medical bag and placing them on an end table.

Once Olivia was close enough to see Peter through the mess of doctors, her heart ached with empathy. His skin was pail, with a slight greenish tint to it. His lips were white and his eyes bloodshot. His hair was soaked in sweat and he was trembling, ever so slightly, under the thin knit throw that they'd placed over him.

"I have no idea what's making him sick," Jessica said. "He says he's dizzy and nauseous. He's vomited quite a lot, and now he's got a fever."

"Might be food poisoning," the paramedic on the ground said. "We can do a tox screen at the hospital. But I agree that, right now, an IV is necessary. Perhaps some of the symptoms will wane if we can get him hydrated."

"Give him the IV," Olivia said, stepping forward. "But you don't have to give him a tox screen. I know what's making him sick. A specialist is en route from Boston to treat him, as needed."

"Olivia," Peter choked out, a whole-hearted smile appearing on his ashen face. "I was so worried."

"I'm fine," Olivia assured him. "And Walter's on the way."

"Oh," Peter said, closing his eyes, but still smiling. "I feel better already."

"This is odd," The paramedic on the ground said. "His pulse just went down."

"Is his heart . . ." The paramedic preparing the IV said, pulling his stethoscope off of his neck.

"No, no," the first paramedic said quickly. "It's steady, strong, but slower."

"I think his breathing rhythm has changed too," Jessica said. "I see this all the time. Peter, are you awake?"

Peter gave them a soft groan, but he didn't open his eyes.

"What is it?" Olivia demanded, trying not to panic. "Did he just slip into a coma?"

"No," Jessica laughed. "He fell asleep."

"Just like that?" Olivia asked skeptically. She had every confidence in her old classmate. But as far as Olivia could tell, Peter was the most important person in two universes. She dared not trust his life to a simple obstetrician.

"Positive."

"He does appear to be asleep," the second paramedic said. "His heart rate was high before, but now it's back in normal parameters."

"I see it all the time," Jessica continued. "A woman is in the early stages of labor, not making any progress, exhausted from anxiety. Then her mother, or husband, or sister comes into the room and she's so relieved that she falls asleep. While she's sleeping, her body does what it needs to and she wakes up in time to push."

"Yeah," Olivia insisted, knowing she was stating the obvious, but feeling that Jessica just might have missed it. "But Peter is not in labor. He was poisoned."

"Poisoned?" Jessica asked, looking up, shocked. "How . . .?"

"That doesn't matter," Olivia said dismissively. "What matters is his health."

"I could be wrong," Jessica admitted before she turned and looked Olivia in the eyes. "He was so worried about you, though. He wanted to go looking for you. It seems obvious to me that he wouldn't rest until he knew you were safe."

Olivia felt a thrill of affection as Jessica's words snake in. She had loved, and been loved, before, of course. And she knew worry was part of that. She believed that John Scott had been worried about her when she went on dangerous investigations. Even Lucas Vogal, with whom she'd barely had more than a tryst, had been concerned about her when she was going to meet a dangerous criminal in a heavily guarded cell. But something about Peter's anxiety touched her. She'd told him she could not love him, and he loved her anyways. He loved her so much he couldn't sleep for worry. He loved her, and everyone in the room knew it.

A tender smile found its way onto her face as she stepped closer and looked down at Peter. She saw a grimace flicker across his features as the paramedic inserted the IV needle, but it quickly disappeared and the pain did not interrupt his sleep. She realized, as she stared down at his sleeping face, that she had forgiven him. She did not realize, however, that she no longer noticed his shimmer.

The ball continued in the hall, with very few of the guests realizing what had happened. The Holds, after giving detailed statements to Deputy Brewster, were allowed to return for the rest of the evening after swearing they would not talk about what happened, in case the police wanted to question any other guests at a later date. Nina also gave her statement, but she chose to stay out of the ball. She sat in the teacher's lounge, watching over Peter. Olivia was kept busy coordinating the law enforcement response. One of the girls who'd been working at the check-in desk found the dean, Ms. Abergnot, who provided her own office for the deputy to take Mrs. Colbert's statement and hold the suspect until Boyle's arrived and could take Mrs. Colbert into federal custody. Ms. Abergnot also authorized the helicopter that was carrying Boyles, Astrid, Walter, and two field agents, to land in the courtyard.

The paramedics had wanted to take Peter to the local hospital, a small, 20-bed complex in Middleton. Olivia would not allow it, knowing Walter was on his way. After assuring the paramedics that she could safely remove the IV once it had been spent, they decided it was best to leave. So as Deputy Brewster guarded the prisoner, his partner watched for the rapidly approaching helicopter.

When it finally arrived, things happened quickly. Olivia showed Astrid and Walter where Peter was, but was able to do little more than rattle off the ingredients of Mr. Colbert's Cortexiphan cure before she was called to assist the field agents on the roof. Next she had to arrange with Ms. Abergnot for Walter to have access to the school's chemistry lab and to have a cot set up in it, as Walter was used to treating people in his lab. When she was done with that, Boyles needed her to clarify some points in Mrs. Colbert's testimony. At 11:30, as the ball still played out in the sealed hall, Olivia watched the helicopter lift off, taking Boyles, the field agents, and Mrs. Colbert back to Boston.

Astrid and Walter were still working in the lab, and with a deep breath, Olivia realized she ought to see how Peter was doing. However, when she walked out of the brightly lit and warm foyer of the hall, the wind whipped around her barely covered legs and sent chills through her, so that it seemed as if even her bones were cold. She thought, as she started trooping through the snow, that it would not hurt if she took five minutes to go change into warmer clothes. When she got to her room, she thought it would not hurt if she sat on the bed for a moment. But, the adrenalin surge early in the night, and the hours of work after it, had taken their toll on her. Sitting quickly turned to lying, and lying quickly turned to sleeping, and Olivia never made it to the lab.

**The end – with epilog to come.**


	9. Epilog

**Sunday, 8:50 a.m.**

A phone rang.

Olivia groaned at the interruption of her very comfortable sleep.

"Damn it," Peter muttered softly. The phone did not ring again, but now Olivia was awake.

"Peter?" she asked, pushing herself up in bed. Her body ached all over, and she was embarrassed, for a moment, to discover that her shirt had slipped over her shoulder. But she quickly realized she'd fallen asleep in her cocktail dress.

"I'll be gone in a minute," Peter said. "I was just grabbing my things. You can go back to sleep."

"What time is it?" Olivia asked, squinting as she looked out the window at the bright morning sun reflecting off of the snow on the ground.

"Almost nine," Peter said.

"Um, I should get up," Olivia said, pushing herself up so that she was sitting in bed. At some point in the night she'd crawled under the covers, though she did not remember doing so.

"I'm sorry," Peter said. "I was trying not to wake you. But Walter just texted asking if we could go to a pancake house for breakfast."

Olivia smiled. "I take it you're feeling better."

"Yeah," Peter said. "It's amazing what a good night's sleep can do."

"Don't I know it," Olivia said, rubbing her eyes before she realized that she'd never washed off her makeup. Then she realized that she'd never taken out her hair. Reaching behind her head, she found the very messy remains of her bun. "Though, I'm guessing what I had can't really count as beauty sleep," she said as she undid the bun and let her long blond hair fall to her shoulders.

"You look sweet," Peter said as he smiled down at her.

Olivia blushed and changed the subject. "Was Walter able to figure out what that serum was doing to you?"

"Yeah, I think so," Peter said. "To put it simply, it made my brain swell. He said that, hypothetically, such a process could destroy the brain structures enabled by Cortexiphan, but he thought it would probably cause preeminent brain damage."

"But it didn't hurt you?" Olivia asked anxiously.

"No," Peter said. "Just gave me vertigo."

"Did he think that, maybe, it could be modified?" Olivia asked. "So as not to cause brain damage?"

"If your asking will he fix it, so that there is an antidote for Cortexiphan, the answer is no," Peter said. "He actually seemed insulted that anyone would want to."

"Oh," Olivia said, not able to hide the disappointment in her voice. "I just, I couldn't help but think of all those people, my classmates from Jacksonville. Cortexiphan ruined their lives and, maybe, if they'd been able to . . ."

"He's not the only scientist in the world, Olivia," Peter said. "Walter may hate fixing his mistakes, but Agent Boyles and Nina Sharp, among others, will see the need. I don't think this research will end."

"You're right," Olivia said, nodding and smiling. "I'm glad, because . . ."

She was interrupted by a knock on the door. Olivia glanced at Peter, who walked over and opened it.

"Oh, hi Peter," Nina Jacobsen said. "I'm glad to see you're doing better."

"Thanks," Peter replied. "And, I'd like to say, I'm sorry about last night."

"No, it's understandable," Nina said, blushing. "When you do stupid things like I did . . ."

"Stupid, but lucky," Peter said. "You may have saved Olivia's life."

"What did Nina do?" Olivia asked as she got out of bed and walked over to the door.

"She's the one that called with the threat," Peter said, turning to Olivia.

"Why?" Olivia asked, looking from Peter back to her old friend.

"Oh, Liv, I'm so sorry," Nina said. "I just . . . it was so stupid. I didn't want you to come because, well, I didn't want to see you, and think of Tina, and all that. But, now that you did come, I'm so glad. I was very wrong to call your office. I'm very sorry."

"It's fine, really," Olivia said dismissively, her curiosity overriding her feelings. "But how did you know about Cortexiphan?"

"I hope I'm not going to get into trouble about that," Nina said. "Jessica thought that maybe . . ."

"Nina, you may have saved Olivia's life," Peter said. "I realize you made that call for all the wrong reasons, but if you hadn't, I wouldn't have come, and she would have been shot. What made me sick could have killed her."

"So, it's legit, then?" Nina asked, shocked out of her guilt by the seriousness of the situation. "Cortexiphan is a thing?"

Olivia nodded, "And I'd like to know how you knew."

"Um, it's actually kind of complicated."

"I'm all ears," Olivia said.

"Well," Nina started, hesitatingly. "The first time I remember hearing about it was actually here, at the school, in the teachers' lounge, after Tina died. Mr. Colbert had just told me and I was crying, but then Mrs. Colbert walked up, so he got up to talk to her. I think, I think I hoped that Mrs. Colbert would say something like 'oh, you were wrong, Tina's fine' - you know how, when something terrible happens, we keep expecting for it to not have happened?"

"Yeah," Olivia said, nodding. "I know that feeling."

"So I listened very carefully to their conversation, sure I would hear good news. Mrs. Colbert said 'The police and ambulance are here.' And Mr. Colbert said 'At least she fell on the far side of the building. The girls shouldn't see the site, and we'll be able to tell them at dinner.' Then she said, 'I've been thinking, will they see the Cortexiphan in the autopsy, or the . . .' but he interrupted her, "I'll try to get a copy of the report. But for now, we have to focus on the girls." "But, what about Miss Dunham?" she insisted. I assumed they meant they couldn't forget to tell you, which made what he said next really confusing. "I know, but that's a problem for another day. Right now, I should find Miss Dunham and Miss Ludding. Stay here with Miss Kelly.' And she did stay with me, sitting quietly while I cried -that is, until he brought you in."

"You didn't think that conversation was odd?" Olivia asked.

"I was fifteen and my sister died," Nina said. "Besides, I was terrible at everything science. When I got around to thinking about it, I figured Cortexiphan was probably a side effect of falling to your death, or something. You remember how Tina used to take my bio tests?"

"Yeah," Olivia said, smiling warmly at the memory.

"I had no idea what they were talking about, but I didn't think it could possibly matter if Tina was dead. Then, this summer, as I was helping my parents move, I came across a box full of old papers. Mostly it was artwork and stuff from when we were in preschool, back in Ohio. But one of the things in there was a printed sheet titled 'Your Child and Cortexiphan.' Immediately, I remembered the conversation. I read through the page and it had all kinds of advice for parents if their child showed certain signs. Jump in IQ, seeing things - light in particular - that weren't there, knowing things they shouldn't know. All sorts of stuff. For some reason, the symptoms reminded me of you and Tina. How you two had always been in sync in a way that, well, amazed me. I was her twin, but you two were the same. When I asked my mom, she said that she thought Tina and I had been in a twin study for this drug called Cortexiphan. Tina had gotten it; I had not. And suddenly, it made sense. You must have gotten Cortexiphan too. Somehow, the Colberts had known about it and worried that you would commit suicide just like Tina. I thought about calling you then, but we hadn't talked for so long - I had no idea what I would even say. But then, as I was driving here, and I decided I should call you and pretty much beg you not to come, it just all feel out. . . . why are you smiling?"

"Because, you're brilliant," Olivia said, her smile fading to a look of serious determination as she prepared herself to share some very disturbing news. "And, I have something important to tell you. Mr. and Mrs. Colbert killed Tina because she'd been given Cortexiphan."

"No," Nina gasped.

"I'm sorry," Olivia said. "But you're evidence corroborates Mrs. Colbert's story. Tina was not depressed - there was nothing you and I could have done, or said, to her, or to anyone, that would have stopped her death."

"Bu, but . . ." Nina stammered. "I don't understand."

"On the day Tina died, she was sent to the Dean's office. She went and found Mr. and Mrs. Colbert waiting for her. They grabbed her, and Mr. Colbert injected her with a serum which was supposed to undo the effects of Cortexiphan – the same type of serum that she shot Peter with last night."

"What?" Nina asked, totally baffled by this new information. "Why?"

"Because he was insane," Olivia said simply. "He'd worked with the clinical trial group in Ohio - which is how he knew she had Cortexiphan and you didn't. It, um," she continued, hesitating a little at the realization. "It was only a matter of chance that he chose to attack Tina instead of me. That's why Mrs. Colbert asked about me, and he said it was a problem for another day. They were going to inject me eventually."

"And the serum killed her?" Nina asked.

"I'm not sure," Olivia said. "Mrs. Colbert said that Tina went into convulsions, they couldn't hold her, and she fell out of the dean's window."

"Right under the bell tower," Nina muttered.

"Which is how they came up with their story," Olivia concluded.

Nina closed her eyes as a stream of tears trickled down her face. Olivia could feel herself starting to tear up as well.

"Thank you," Nina said, after a moment of silent crying.

"You don't have to thank me," Olivia said. "I didn't do anything."

"You came," Nina insisted, looking up at Olivia with sad but grateful eyes. "And because of that, you proved that my sister didn't kill herself. You proved that Tina was who I always thought she was. You proved that I wasn't a bad sister for not seeing the signs, because there were no signs."

"I proved that for myself as much as for you," Olivia said. "I never really forgave myself for not knowing that something was wrong with her. I couldn't understand why she hadn't trusted me. I didn't believe that I couldn't have stopped it, somehow."

"But, we couldn't have, could we?" Nina said. She was still crying, but she was smiling too.

"No," Olivia said. "We would have had to have known that the dean wanted to - 'cure' was the word Mrs. Colbert used - us of Cortexiphan. We didn't even know we'd been given it."

"And Mrs. Colbert will go to prison?"

"Yeah, I think so," Olivia said. "She'll plead manslaughter in Tina's case, of course. But, she and her husband didn't stop after Tina died. Clearly, they kept wanting to 'cure' me - which might allow the prosecutor to jump it up to a murder charge. She also assaulted a federal officer, which might even be tried as attempted murder. So, I think it's very likely she will go to prison."

"Oh, Olivia, thank you!" Nina said again, stepping forward and hugging her old friend. "My family . . . this will mean so much to my mother. You have no idea."

Olivia was starting to feel embarrassed by the gratitude. She had not meant to redeem Tina's memory and, Olivia felt as unburdened by this new information as Nina did.

The carillon in the bell tower started ringing the hour, which seemed to bring Nina back to herself. She stepped away from Olivia, wiped away her tears, took a deep breath, looked up, and smiled. "I'm late for breakfast," she said. "Is it OK if I . . ."

"Yeah," Olivia said. "You'll probably be contacted by a prosecutor in the next week or two, about your testimony."

"All right," Nina nodded. "But, I still have to give this to you. It's actually why I stopped by." Nina reached into the back pocket of her jeans and pulled out a pink piece of paper shaped like a crown. "It's an invitation to Chrissie's birthday," she said as she handed it to Olivia. "You're both invited."

"She's turning six?" Olivia asked, smiling as she looked at the invitation.

"My whole family will be there," Nina said. "My mom, in particular, would love to see you. And Chrissie's getting to that age where she's really interested in Tina, wants to know everything about her aunt. If you could tell some of the stories about going to the boat house and all that . . . well, really, I know it's short notice, and everything, but everyone would be so happy if you came. I'd, I'd really be happy if you came."

"I won't miss it," Olivia promised her friend. "Thank you so much for inviting me."

"Would you like to come down to breakfast too?" Nina asked. "Lyla and Kate are probably waiting downstairs."

"I'm not quite ready for breakfast yet," Olivia said, glancing down at her dress.

"Oh," Nina said. "I suppose not. Well, then, I guess I'll let you get dressed. See you later, and, thank you so much."

"See you later," Olivia promised.

**The very end **


End file.
